


Rise and Fall

by Sarra Manderly (TasarienOfCarasGaladhon)



Series: Aemon the Dragonwolf [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya is really messed up you guys, Casual Uses of Warging, Cersei is Queen in the South, Gen, Ignores S7, Independent North, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon is King in the North, Mix of Show and Book Verse, Nightmares, Stark family feels, The North remembers, The Riverlands Wolf Pack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 01:48:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13847514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TasarienOfCarasGaladhon/pseuds/Sarra%20Manderly
Summary: Daenerys Targaryen, finally arrived in Westeros, must fight for her home on the Sunset Sea. Jon Snow returns to the Wall at the head of an army to face the monsters beyond, while Sansa and Bran hold Winterfell. A lost girl takes a detour on her way home, and a forgotten man faces his ghosts. Across the wide expanse of the Seven Kingdoms, players in the Great Game move and strike in turn.





	1. Wylis I

**Author's Note:**

> We come to it at last...the (first) great battle of our time...
> 
> Thank you iamqueenkk for beta reading, as always! =)

**WYLIS I**

 

Wylis had no idea how long he’d been in this cell. There were no windows, so he could not count the passing days by watching the sun. The Freys no longer came down to mock him, and they hadn’t fed him in quite some time. His filthy surcoat, once blue-green and stretched taut over his belly and mail, hung loosely and was covered in muck.

 

He missed his wife. Poor Leona must believe him dead; otherwise he was sure that with or without Father’s permission, his dear wife would have bartered the Harbor itself for his safe return. And his daughters, the jewels of the Merman’s Court? They must be married by now, with children of their own. They would not have put their lives on hold because their father was locked in a dungeon, and he wouldn’t have wanted them to do so.

 

His cellmate was in the same boat. Greatjon Umber, Lord of the Last Hearth, lay snoring on the stinking cot he’d been given to sleep on. He’d always been a large man, and a very strong one, but years of poor rations had eaten away at his strength, leaving him rail-thin and weak of body. Jon, too, had left children and grandchildren in the North, and had heard no news of them since the gods-cursed wedding.

 

The Red Wedding. Wylis remembered the words in disgust. A few of the Freys had come down to mock the prisoners after, and that was the name the Riverlanders had given that _atrocity_. It wasn’t right. The gods hated those who broke guest right more than anyone, even kinslayers. Why were the Freys still alive and prospering?

 

These days, the two Northmen were lucky to receive water, let alone food, blankets, an empty bucket to piss in, or even a candle to see their cramped cell. The dungeons of the Twins had become an imitation of the Black Cells in King’s Landing, and Wylis and the Greatjon knew they would go mad if they were to stay here much longer.

 

A few hours later, when Jon was awake, the two were chatting quietly, trading stories of their families. In the relentless darkness, a friendly voice was all that kept Wylis from screaming himself hoarse in rage and despair. It hardly mattered that Wylis had heard all of the Greatjon’s stories already, and vice versa. They’d been reduced to whispers, not for secrecy, but because they were so parched with thirst that they couldn’t speak at a normal volume for any length of time.

 

“Now, Uncle Mors’ girl, my cousin Gilliane...she was a true northern beauty,” the Greatjon said with a sigh. “She was as tall as Uncle Crowfood, broad in the shoulders and as strong as us lads, but her face was as pretty as a man could wish for. When we were children she was terrified of horses,” he added. “My brothers and I, and her brothers, would ride in a circle around her, because she was so scared of falling. We’d make silly faces until she forgot her fear,” he said fondly. Then his whisper turned murderous. “Then those wildling _bastards_ stole her right out of our keep. We formed the largest search party in decades. Even Rickard Stark came to look for Gill, though Lady Lyarra was deathly ill at the time.”

 

“He was a good man, Lord Rickard,” Wylis said for the hundredth time. “Didn’t deserve to go the way he did.”

 

The Greatjon agreed, as always. He was in the middle of his anti-Targaryen tirade when the walls began to lighten. Someone was approaching with a candle. The footsteps, deafening in the silent dungeon, were light, probably those of a woman in soft slippers.

 

She came into view. It was a Frey serving wench, slight of build and comelier than most. The girl was carrying a trencher of bread and meat, and two mugs. Wylis’ gut, silent after days without food, rumbled with sudden interest.

 

The serving girl said nothing, but slid the trencher through the small gap made for that purpose. Wylis smelled roasted pork.

 

“Is this a trick?” the Greatjon asked hoarsely. “Your lot left us to starve to death; now you feed us?”

 

She didn’t answer.

 

“Are you mute, girl, or just stupid?” the big man roared. “What is happening here? Are those poxy, godless Freys playing with us?”

 

Still, she remained silent. But in the dim light of the single candle, Wylis thought the girl had smiled. Now free of the trencher, she reached up with her candle and lit the long-forgotten torch hanging from a bracket. It flared to life, blinding the northern prisoners until their eyes had adjusted to the light.

 

When they were finally able to see, the girl was gone. The torch-lit food remained, proving that she hadn’t been a figment of their imaginations.

 

“What in the seven hells are they up to now?” Wylis wondered aloud.

 

The Greatjon shrugged. “I’ll never understand these weasels. Mayhaps this is our last meal, and they’ll execute us after.”

 

Wylis’ heart sank. He hadn’t thought of that. But with King Robb long dead, it seemed that no one cared to ransom the Greatjon and himself. Perhaps they’d outlived their usefulness.

 

“Well,” he said at last, “if this is our last meal, I mean to enjoy it.”

 

He picked up one of the mugs and drank deeply. He was so thirsty that he’d have drunk Walder Frey’s piss at this point, but the wine they’d been given was surprisingly good. The Greatjon followed suit, and together, they demolished the warm bread, cheese, and pork until not even a crumb was left. Wylis felt uncomfortably full, but it didn’t matter. If he was about to die, he’d die with a full belly.

 

The day passed slowly, with both men sure they’d be dragged outside and executed. No one came for them. The torch went out. After brooding in the dark for hours, Wylis finally fell asleep on his dirty bed of straw.

 

When the two prisoners woke, there was a fresh torch burning on the bracket, and another trencher of food. There were two steaming bowls of porridge, fried fish, and boiled eggs, along with mugs of nettle tea. Beside the food lay a small pile of blankets, neatly folded, and their overflowing waste buckets were gone. Empty buckets stood in their place.

 

“By the gods,” the Greatjon mumbled. “Why are they doing this, Wylis? Even if the Late Lord Frey had died of old age, his sons wouldn’t change course like this.”

 

“I don’t know, Jon,” Wylis replied honestly. He picked up one of the bowls and sniffed appreciatively. Nothing had ever smelled so good; he caught hints of cinnamon and cloves, and the bowl warmed his hands nicely.

 

The servant girl kept coming. It was always the same wench, and she never said a word. Sometimes they were awake when she came, and they pestered her with questions that went unanswered. Sometimes they were asleep, and the smell of food or the sudden light woke them. Whatever her other duties were around the Twins, she came twice a day, every day.

 

The nameless girl’s arrival made it easier to track the time. A week went by, and Wylis and Jon began to regain their strength. Then a fortnight passed, and the two men were able to walk—slowly—around their cramped cell again. A moon’s turn after the girl’s first appearance, she appeared without food while they did floor-presses to strengthen their arms.

 

“What are your names?” she asked suddenly.

 

The Greatjon fell in surprise. Wylis nearly did the same, but caught himself. They stared at the serving girl, incredulous.

 

“You can talk!” the Greatjon cried.

 

“Of course I can talk,” she said impatiently. “What are your names?”

 

“Wylis Manderly,” Wylis told her. “Son of Lord Wyman of White Harbor.”

 

“Jon Umber, Lord of the Last Hearth,” the Greatjon added. “What’s yours?”

 

“Bella.” The girl’s eyes narrowed. “So you’re supporters of Robb Stark?”

 

“Robb Stark is dead, girl,” the Greatjon boomed, impatient. “But yes, we were loyal to Lord Ned and his Young Wolf.”

 

“Not that it matters,” Wylis told her gloomily. “King Robb is dead, the Boltons have taken Winterfell, and the Starks are all dead.”

 

Bella the serving wench smirked.

 

“Your information is outdated,” she said, and her Riverlands accent shifted into something more familiar, more _northern_. “Roose and Ramsay Bolton are dead. Jon Snow and Sansa Stark are alive, and they took back Winterfell. He’s the new King in the North; I heard it from the crannogmen.”

 

Wylis and Jon looked at each other in amazement. Wylis hardly dared believe her!

 

“And the south?” Jon asked her.

 

“Tywin Lannister was murdered on the privy,” Bella told them, and her smirk grew. “Joffrey Baratheon was poisoned at his wedding. Myrcella and Tommen Baratheon are dead. Cersei Lannister named herself queen, and blew up the Sept of Baelor with all her enemies inside. She won’t last long,” the girl added with satisfaction. “Daenerys Targaryen is sailing to Westeros with an army and a navy. Dorne and the Reach are already on her side.”

 

“Why are you telling us all of this?” Wylis asked, more curious than suspicious. Tywin Lannister dying on the privy was too nonsensical to be a falsehood, but what did the serving girl gain by sharing all of this with two prisoners?

 

“Because you asked,” the girl replied, blinking innocently. “And I have a message for you.”

 

“Do you, now?” the Greatjon wondered, intrigued. “Well? What is it?”

 

“Winter is coming for House Frey,” she said, cold as the White Knife that ran past Wylis’ home. The accompanying grin was too innocent for her tone, and it made Bella look younger than usual. “So rest, and recover your health, my lords. It won’t be long now.”

 

She left without another word.

 

* * *

 

Wylis dreamed of wolves. Then he woke, and heard the howling of a real wolf pack outside the castle. They were close, far closer than wild animals had any right to be. Didn’t the Freys have any hunters? It was nonsensical to leave the beasts so near their home, where they could get into the chicken coops, or the pig pens, and demolish the castle’s food supply. His already abysmal opinion of House Frey dropped further.

 

Bella arrived with their breakfast then, humming to herself. She was even more tone-deaf than Wylis’ father. The Greatjon snored away under his blankets, but the smell of food would wake him soon enough.

 

“Do you hear that?” Bella asked Wylis, and he caught an almost childish excitement in her eyes. “The wolves are here. How much longer do you two need to recover before you could ride away?” she asked, taking Wylis off guard.

 

“What? Escape from the Twins?” he choked, spraying his ruined clothes with tea.

 

“I can get you out without running into a single Frey,” she said, quietly confident.

 

“Today,” the Greatjon butted in, sitting up and looking wide awake. “We’ll be ready to leave today. Are we the only Northmen here?”

 

“Aye,” she replied. “I meant to free un—Lord Edmure as well, but he’s not here. They’ve taken him to Casterly Rock with his Frey wife and son.”

 

“What about horses?” Wylis asked.

 

“I have four horses ready for us,” she said. “And saddlebags with provisions. We should reach White Harbor in a fortnight, if we don’t run into any heavy snowstorms.”

 

Wylis dropped his spoon. The very thought of being home in so little time!

 

“Your father is probably at Winterfell, Lord Wylis,” Bella told him. “The crannogmen told me King Jon summoned all of the northern lords there.”

 

“And my son?” Jon asked her. “Jon Umber? The Smalljon?”

 

The servant girl frowned. “I heard he turned Rickon Stark over to the Boltons. He died fighting for Ramsay Bolton.”

 

“No!” gasped the lord of the Last Hearth. “He’d never!”

 

The girl shrugged, but her eyes were hard. “That’s all I know. If he betrayed the Starks and he still lives, I’ll kill him myself, Lord Umber. You may rest assured of that.”

 

“And who are you, to be so concerned with the affairs of the North?” the Greatjon asked, frowning at her.

 

Bella’s face was carefully blank. Slowly, she raised a hand to her forehead, and curved her fingers as though she meant to scratch at her skin. But to Wylis’ and Jon’s horror, the skin peeled away entirely, revealing a different face underneath. It was a familiar, _impossible_ face.

 

“How dare you!” roared the Greatjon, pulling at the cell bars in his fury. “Essosi scum, who gave you the right to steal the face of Lyanna Stark?”

 

The Faceless Woman blinked in surprise.

 

“I’m not wearing Lyanna Stark’s face,” she said, gazing at them with Stark-gray eyes and that long, northern face. “I’m wearing the face of _Arya_ Stark. _My_ face.”

 

 _Oh_. That made more sense; Ned’s youngest girl had always looked like her late aunt. But the Greatjon was still as angry as a hunted bear.

 

“Prove it!” he demanded. “If you’re truly Arya Stark, _prove_ it.”

 

The girl bit her lip. She seemed to be thinking hard for a moment, then leaned back against the wall and spoke.

 

“You came to Winterfell when I was six or seven,” she told Jon. “You brought the Smalljon with you. I remember because I saw him sparring with Ser Rodrik and the men-at-arms in the courtyard. I wanted to go and watch, but I was stuck upstairs, sewing with Sansa and the septa,” she recalled. “I told Septa Mordane I was feeling ill so I could escape, and when I ran down the stairs, I bumped into you and Father. You were leaving his solar, I think. Father wanted to punish me, but you asked him not to. _That’s a proper wolf-child, Ned_ , you told him. _She shouldn’t be cooped up inside all the time_. Then we went down together, and you shared an apple tart with me and told me about your grandchildren.”

 

Wylis watched with interest as the Greatjon’s face softened. “So I did,” he said faintly. He let go of the bars, and knelt on the dirty stone floor. “Princess Arya! I can hardly believe I’m seeing you here, but I’m glad nonetheless, to find a Stark living and breathing.”

 

Wylis knelt as well. It was only right in the presence of King Robb’s little sister, and also their rescuer!

 

“Break your fast before everything gets cold,” she advised. “We have a long journey ahead. I’ll return when everything is ready.”

 

Wylis and Jon obeyed. They were burning with questions, like where Arya had been all this time, how she’d become a Faceless Woman, and why she’d chosen to come _here_ instead of heading home to Winterfell, but there would be plenty of time to ask.

 

* * *

 

Arya Stark returned a few hours later, and led them out of their cell at last. Wylis didn’t know how she’d gotten the keys, but knowing she could change faces, it wasn’t hard to guess how one slip of a girl could move about the Twins undisturbed. It was eerily quiet; the Crossing was full to bursting with Freys, so where were they?

 

They followed their king’s little sister to a guest chamber in the Water Tower, one of the finest the castle had to offer. Inside, the princess had left two bathtubs full of hot water, soap and oils, combs, razors, shears, and a stack of men’s clothing.

 

“I’m not sure which of them will fit,” she said, more practical than apologetic. “but you need good clothes for the trip. Maybe some of those will help.”

 

“Thank you, Princess,” the Greatjon told her sincerely. Wylis was quick to agree. He’d sat in his own filth for so long that he didn’t dare imagine how bad he must smell. Lady Arya had been kind enough to say nothing, however.

 

“When you’re dressed, come to the Lord’s Hall in the east tower. You won’t meet any Freys; I’ve made sure.”

 

And with that mysterious statement, the princess left the two men to their ablutions. Neither Jon nor Wylis wasted any time; hot water was a luxury even in a lord’s castle, and they’d had none for far too long. There was no sound except for the splash of water and the slide of soap against wet skin, though Wylis could tell that his companion was thinking deep thoughts.

 

“What do you remember about the Snow boy?” he asked suddenly.

 

“Jon Snow?” Wylis replied. The Greatjon nodded, prompting the Manderly to continue. “Not much. He was a quiet one; looked and acted more like Ned than any of the other boys. Lady Stark kept him out of sight, but he’d come alive on the training grounds. He was a natural with a sword in his hands.”

 

“King Robb wanted to make him his heir, when we got the news that Greyjoy had killed the younger boys,” Jon told Wylis. “Only a few of us knew it. But the boy was in the Night’s Watch. How can he be king then, unless he got out in time and never took the vow?”

 

“I doubt the North would have chosen a deserter, even Ned’s son,” Wylis said, scrubbing at his matted hair. “I suppose we’ll have to meet him and see for ourselves.”

 

The Greatjon adjusted his position in the tub, which was too small for him, and grunted. “After Aerys the Mad, Robert the Drunkard, Joffrey the Bastard, and Roose _fucking_ Bolton, I’ll take a Stark bastard _any_ day, to be honest. Maybe even a deserter.”

 

Their bathwater cooled far too quickly, and it was filthy by the time they’d finished bathing. The two men dried off and inspected the clothes Lady Arya had left for them, passing them to each other and trying them on for size. Wylis was staggered by the tiny breeches and shirts he was wearing now; he’d always been a large man, like his father, and it was strange to look down and not see the generous belly he’d had most of his life. He was, quite literally, half the man he’d been before the Red Wedding.

 

The Greatjon had lost much of his muscle, but none of his height. Wylis fought back a laugh as Jon laced up breeches that were a full five inches too short for him. Luckily, the woolen socks he’d pulled out of the pile were long enough to compensate.

 

Lady Arya had been kind enough to find clothes without the sigil of the Freys, thank the Seven. Neither man wanted anything on their person to remind them of their captors, so they dressed in leather and wool of various, but unadorned colors. Perhaps these clothes belonged to Lord Frey’s small army of bastards, who would never wear their father’s sigil or bear his name. There were supple riding boots, heavy hooded cloaks, and fur-lined gloves as well, to keep them alive in the North.

 

Once dressed, Wylis and Jon went looking for the Lord’s Hall in the eastern tower, where Lord Frey usually sat in his great oaken chair. The lack of Freys—or anyone, really—was getting under Wylis’ skin. No castle was _this_ silent, especially not a castle as large and as populated as this one! Had Arya Stark brought an army of Faceless Men with her? Was there plague? Had someone poisoned the family’s wine stores?

 

The hairs on the back of Wylis’ neck were standing up. He looked over at Jon and saw the same unease he was feeling. Still, they neared the black oak doors of the hall—the same hall where the Freys had broken guest right—and pushed them open.

 

There were no humans in the hall, save one. Arya Stark, dressed in men’s travel clothes, sat leisurely on the Lord of the Crossing’s chair, with her booted legs thrown over the right armrest and her back against the other. She was sipping at a goblet, quite at her ease. That was not what bothered the two men.

 

The princess was not alone. There was an enormous gray direwolf, bigger than Grey Wind at the time of its death, sitting at the base of her chair. Smaller wolves prowled around the room, which had been torn to shreds. The tables and benches were covered in claw and bite marks. All of the hangings had been torn off the walls, and Wylis smelled dung—wolf’s dung, perhaps?—atop the piles of ripped fabric on the floor. The wolves had feasted recently, it appeared, leaving bones everywhere. Wylis _hoped_ the bones weren’t human.

 

As soon as the men had entered, three of the wolves approached slowly, assessing. Before they could cry for help or step aside, the direwolf jumped to life, standing between the humans and her adopted pack. With no more than a snarl from the monster, the small wolves stepped back, cowed and submissive.

 

Princess Arya abandoned her goblet and stood, approaching them far too casually for a girl in a room full of wild beasts. Now that she’d moved, Wylis saw that the great chair of the Lord of the Crossing had a new, clumsy inscription on top of the carved bridges.

 

WINTER COMES FOR ALL TRAITORS, it read in crooked, uneven letters.

 

“Do you like my decorations?” Arya Stark asked them, petting the monster wolf on the head.

 

“Ha!” boomed the Greatjon. “I can’t imagine a better payback, your grace! Where are the Freys now?”

 

The princess smirked. “That depends. The women and children, and the men that had nothing to do with the wedding, are upstairs in their beds. I made them ill to get them out of the way. The rest are feeding the fish—or the wolves,” she added, satisfied.

 

“Did you do all of this yourself?” Wylis asked, shocked.

 

She nodded.

 

Wylis swore. He was torn between admiration and horror; he certainly hoped his daughters would never do such a thing, but he could not blame Arya Stark for taking revenge on her mother’s and brother’s murderers.

 

“What about the Freys at Riverrun?” the Greatjon asked. “Lame Lothar and Black Walder were the worst of the lot; Black Walder came down to our cell and boasted that the wedding had been his plan from the start, and Tywin Lannister had only offered a reward for something he’d already wanted to do.”

 

Arya frowned. “Then we’ll have to take care of them both, _before_ we go north.”

 

“Your grace,” Wylis said gently, “there’s no need for this. Your brother is King in the North; you’d be safe there.”

 

“Safe?” she scoffed. “No one is ever safe.”

 

No child should ever be so cynical, Wylis thought in defeat. But he had no counterargument, not for this girl who had lost most of her family in brutal ways. The great wolf seemed to sense distress, because it butted its head against its mistress’ hand, offering silent support. Wylis heard a mumbled “Thanks, Nymeria.”

 

“Edmure’s in Casterly Rock now,” the Greatjon thought aloud. “Even if the three of us went to Riverrun, _somehow_ took the castle—beg pardon, your grace, I’m not doubting your skills, but Riverrun is a mighty fortress—killed some Freys, and took the castle back, we’d need someone to hold it. Mayhaps the Blackfish?”

 

“He’s dead,” the princess told them coolly. “The crannogmen told me. The Lannisters threatened to catapult Uncle Edmure’s son over the walls, so he yielded the castle. The Blackfish died fighting rather than surrender.” There was no grief on her face. That struck Wylis as odd, but perhaps she’d never met her mother’s uncle. This strange girl, who wore Lyanna Stark’s face but showed no emotions except hatred and rage, made him nervous. It was too easy to think the worst of her. Mentally scolding himself, Wylis looked around the room to buy time.

 

“What about Jason Mallister, of Seagard?” he suggested at last. “Out of all the Riverlanders, he and the Blackfish were your brother’s most valued supporters. A brave man, and honorable besides.”

 

“Patrek Mallister was in the cell next to ours,” the Greatjon spoke up. “They took him away a long time ago. If Black Walder keeps him prisoner in Riverrun to make his father behave, freeing the boy will earn your grace Lord Mallister’s gratitude and loyalty.”

 

“I like it,” the princess decided, though there was no indication of that on her face. “Then we’ll free Riverrun from any Lannisters or Freys inside the walls, and send for Lord Mallister when we have his son. Or we could make Patrek the castellan,” she suggested.

 

“He and Edmure are friends, or were,” Wylis said, “and he was on your brother’s personal guard; a trustworthy man, though not as serious as his father. He’s a bit too fond of drinking and whores for that. Lord Mallister might think it a trick, however, if we sent a raven saying the boy is now castellan of the place where he was held captive.”

 

“Then let him visit,” Princess Arya replied with a shrug. “Let’s go. We’ll have time to plan out the details as we ride.”

 

She walked to a nearby bench, ignoring the wolves sitting around it and laying on the table behind it, and picked up an enormous, ugly greatsword. Jon cried out in surprise and joy when he saw it, and he took it from the struggling Arya before she dropped the heavy thing.

 

“My sword,” he said in delight. “I’m glad it’s still in one piece! Looks like I’ll be needing it soon!”

 

The next sword she picked up was thinner and quite a bit shorter, adorned with a blue-green gem on the pommel and a carved merman on the bottom end of the grip. Wylis accepted his weapon with a grateful bow and smile.

 

“Does it have a name?” the princess asked him suddenly. The cold mask seemed to peel away for a moment, revealing the curious young girl beneath.

 

“Bite, your grace,” he replied easily, “like the bay at home.”

 

“Right, I’ve had enough of this place,” the Greatjon said. “Are we leaving today or not?”

 

Chastened, Wylis armed himself, and put on the heavy cloak as Jon did the same. Princess Arya, too, wrapped a too-long blue cloak around her shoulders, and led them out to the stables. The Greatjon paused only to spit on the ground outside the entrance to the eastern tower. Nymeria the direwolf followed them immediately, and the smaller wolves followed after a tremendous howl from the direwolf that made the former prisoners quake in their riding boots.

 

As much as Wylis regretted the change of plans, it was incredible to be _free_ again. No one would have written songs about Ser Wylis Manderly of old, but now he was riding off on an adventure that may very well be sung of in the future. One lost princess, two warriors, a mythical creature of the North, and an entire wolf-pack were off to cause chaos ( _more_ chaos) for the Lannisters and Freys. Surely that would make a better song than _The Rains of Castamere_?

 

He breathed in the cold, fresh air, and rode on after his companions.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to give you all a sane outsider's perspective of Arya in the style of GRRM's prologues, so here it is. The next time we see Arya will be through her own POV, as she causes chaos in the Riverlands before (finally) going home to Winterfell!
> 
> Next time, we'll catch up with Jon as he arrives at the Wall.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and please do leave a comment if you feel inspired to do so. =)


	2. Jon I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and his army arrive at the Wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, glad you came along for another ride. Thanks to Queen KK for beta reading, as always, and thanks to everyone who left such encouraging comments on the previous chapter. <3\. Enjoy!
> 
> So...I've seen some S8 leaks on Youtube, and I have to say...[STOP READING IF YOU DON'T WANT ANY SPOILERS WHATSOEVER. SCROLL DOWN TO THE ACTUAL CHAPTER] if you're a fan of characters introspecting and characters discussing things, and the leaks are true, you're in for a rough season. Jon finds out he's actually a [spoiler] and two minutes later he's riding a [spoiler] like it's no big deal? And pretty much every important conversation in the whole season (up to 8x04) gets interrupted because we gotta move the plot along, yo, who cares how they all feel about things? This takes the "THE BOOK IS ALWAYS BETTER" cake, though admittedly, it's not unexpected.

**JON I**

 

Jon’s ride north had been uneventful so far, compared to Brienne’s trip to bring Bran home. They’d met no one, living or dead, despite the inevitable noise of a small army marching through packed snow. He’d shared everything he knew of the Others and the wights with his lords, hoping they’d share likewise with their soldiers, in case of an attack on the road. So far, all of his precautions had been for naught.

 

There were many skeptics, but in general, the soldiers appeared more mindful of the old tales than their lords and the maesters sworn to them. Learned men dismissed the tales of wights, White Walkers, and magic as savage nonsense. The common folk of the North, armed with bows and spears and axes of plain steel, listened raptly and looked at Jon in his crown like the Last Hero come again.

 

He’d found out why after a few hours’ march; word had spread across the North like wildfire, first of the old gods breaking their silence at the Winterfell heart tree, and then of the gruesome scars the King in the North bore on his chest and back. Messengers had spread the tales along with Lyanna Mormont’s drawings of Littlefinger, and now the smallfolk whispered of their king, Jon the Undying, saved from death to avenge House Stark and save the North in its hour of need.

 

Jon despised being a legend. He felt more like a mummer in a copy of his brother’s crown, and the boy who had once hidden in dark corners to avoid his uncle’s wife now cringed at the constant _staring_. Every word he said was taken as a command and obeyed without question, and the deference was jarring after years of being the motherless bastard, _Lord_ Snow. He and Sansa had thought it a good idea at the time, allowing certain important people to see his stab wounds, but what had once saved him from the executioner’s block was now driving him mad.

 

The return of his nightmares didn’t help the king’s already grumpy mood, either. He’d known from the start that they would come back, now that he had neither Sansa nor his father’s harp to keep them at bay, but there was little he could do about it. Jon had expected dreams of the Dead, or of Ygritte, but as the top of the Wall came into view, some five-and-thirty miles away, he realized he was tracing one of his stab wounds with a gloved finger. His breath was coming out in harsh pants, but he could not get enough air. He hadn’t seen his former brothers since he’d left with Sansa, Ser Davos, Brienne, and the Red Woman to gather support, and he was not eager to do so again.

 

“Easy, Snow,” Tormund murmured from his place on Jon’s left. He’d been the second of Jon’s Wintersguard to volunteer to come, and Jon was glad for it. No one understood the king’s fears as well as Tormund, who had seen the former Lord Commander’s dead body and fought the true enemy beyond the Wall. “Breathe. In and out, go on. They won’t stab you again.”

 

“They’d better not!” Brienne spoke up. “Or Princess Sansa will have our heads. And she’ll deserve them.”

 

“Aye,” Lord Wull agreed seriously.

 

Joren said nothing. He’d asked them to tie him to his horse so he could scout ahead. Like Jon and his cousins, the man was a skinchanger, though his chosen companion was a peregrine falcon. The wildling Wintersguard sat on his saddle, leaning forward against the neck of his horse, and bound there with ropes, while his mind flew far above them with his bird.

 

“The murderers are dead, anyhow,” Tormund added cheerfully. “The rest are the cravens who let them plot and said nothing.”

 

“I doubt they planned my assassination in the middle of the common hall,” Jon objected, forcing himself to breathe slow and deep.

 

“A crow is a tricksy bird,” offered the wildling with a shrug, and Jon suddenly remembered Mance Rayder saying the same thing. Briefly distracted from his murder, he wondered what Mance would say of the new King in the North. Would he thank Jon for taking his people south? Laugh at him for breaking the same sacred oath he’d sworn himself? Or curse him for sending his babe to Oldtown?

 

The lack of news from Sam was one of the many things worrying Jon. He didn’t know if his friend and Maester Aemon had even _reached_ Oldtown, and the North needed the wisdom only the maesters’ giant library could provide!

 

The blue-white band on the horizon grew steadily taller the next day, but it looked no different than when Jon had seen it last. The visible Wall seemed intact; surely, fissures going halfway up should have been visible from afar? Jon didn’t know where the damage was, exactly, but he’d be surprised if none of the affected portions were close enough to see from the Kingsroad.

 

Then, when they’d marched another thirteen miles, there was an audible gasp from several soldiers, which grew into a din of alarmed voices as more and more men pointed and shouted. They were still two-and-twenty miles away from the Wall at Castle Black, but the top of the nearest crack was visible through the trees to the northeast, hundreds of feet from the base. It was wide enough for a thin sliver of sky to shine through.

 

Jon’s heart sank.

 

Joren, scouting once more, returned to his body amidst the panic, and struggled to pull himself upright. Larence Snow reached over and untied the knots, freeing his fellow guard so he could sit up and report. Jon shook himself out of his panicked stupor and signaled to his lords, who were calming down their men. They joined the king and his Wintersguards at the head of the column, wide-eyed and pale.

 

“The nearest breach in the Wall is between Oakenshield and Woodswatch, some four miles east of Oakenshield,” Joren told them. “One of the crows is riding south to tell us. Most of the men at Castle Black are there already, or marching now. There’s another one near Long Barrow, and the other two are to the west, next to the Nightfort and Greyguard. The Eastwatch men will go to Long Barrow.”

 

Tormund swore. “None of the men on the western side have any dragonglass, or dragonsteel. And if we wanted to help, we’d arrive too late.”

 

He was right, curse him. Unless Edd had sent the Brotherhood without Banners west to join Jon’s men, all of the properly-armed fighting men (and woman) would be on the eastern half of the Wall.

 

“I could ride to one of the western castles, your grace,” Brienne offered, her gloved hand on the hilt of Longclaw.

 

“I appreciate the offer, Lady Commander,” Jon replied, somber, “but it’s at least a hundred and fifty miles from here to Greyguard, and the terrain becomes rocky and difficult west of Castle Black. I’d rather they seal the fissure and retreat eastward, if no help can reach them in time.”

 

“Will normal ice hold back the Others?” Tormund asked dubiously. “We all know the Wall is more than just ice, and it seems strange to fight them with their own weapon.”

 

“I don’t know, Tormund,” Jon answered honestly, peering up at the Wall and its new gap with weary eyes. “I know nothing of the magic that holds it together. But the Watch has sealed entrances that way before, when we didn’t have enough men to garrison a castle.”

 

If Edd didn’t give the order, _he_ would, and deliver it quickly with Joren’s falcon. Jon had not sent hundreds of loyal Northmen to the Wall so they could see the Others pass and then die, helpless to stop them. Yet again, he silently cursed Barbrey Dustin for her grudge.

 

“Lord Royce,” Jon ordered, and the Vale knight nudged his horse closer to Jon’s. “Take your knights to join the Eastwatch men at Long Barrow. You’ll need Ser Harry’s Valyrian steel if any White Walkers appear. Alyn, hand me a map, please.”

 

The burly mountain clansman reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a simplified map of the Wall and its castles, neatly labeled with castle names, and the roads and paths connecting them. They’d asked Lady Mormont to create half a dozen of them, so Jon could direct his troops. The king unrolled the map, and with a piece of charcoal, drew jagged lines where Joren had reported the damage to the Wall. Then he went over the thin line marking the best trail for the Valemen to use, rolled the map back up, and gave it to Bronze Yohn.

 

“Where will you be, your grace?” the older man asked, stowing the map.

 

“I’ll go to Oakenshield for now,” Jon answered, nodding at the only visible gap in the Wall. “The eastern half of the Wall has more Valyrian steel, but fewer men. If I need to move, it’s just over sixty miles from the Oakenshield breach to the Long Barrow breach. I won’t be too far away, should you need me.”

 

Bronze Yohn departed at once. The Vale knights had been some of the most skeptical, but seeing the damage to the Wall with their own eyes had shaken them. Jon could see a well-concealed fear in their eyes, especially in the _older_ men. Ser Harrold Hardying bid Jon a short farewell and good luck despite the gloom, then followed Lord Royce and his subdued knights.

 

 _A man can only be brave when he is afraid_. Someone had taught him that, once. Jon hoped it was true.

 

An hour after the Vale knights had departed, abandoning the Kingsroad for a winding, little-used track that led to the eastern castles, the rider from Castle Black met the scouts at the front of Jon’s column, and was revealed to be Satin.

 

“Jon! Lord Commander!” he cried as he dismounted, moving as though he meant to embrace Jon, then thinking better of it and bowing instead. Jon was surprisingly glad to see him. He’d made the tragic mistake of sending Satin—along with all of his other friends—away before the mutiny, and it was good to see a friendly face in Night’s Watch blacks again.

 

“I’m not Lord Commander anymore, Satin,” Jon corrected him wryly.

 

“You address His Grace, King Jon of Houses Stark and Targaryen,” Lady Commander Brienne said sternly. “You will address him with respect, boy.”

 

 _Boy?_ Jon thought, fighting a smile despite the knot of nerves in his belly. _He’s at least two years older than I am, and you can’t be that much older than we are, Brienne._

 

The former Oldtown whore’s eyebrows rose, and rose, and rose while Brienne corrected him. He seemed more amused than chastened. “Yes, we’ve heard rumors, your grace. That certainly explains a few things! But I didn’t just come to say hello,” he recalled, turning serious. He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a map, then unrolled it to show Jon the Wall and the new fissures on it.

 

“Edd is still not the official Lord Commander, because he doesn’t have the votes,” Satin confessed, “but we’re all treating him like he is anyway. Ser Denys and Cotter Pyke are so used to fighting _living_ wildlings that they don’t know what to do with dead ones, and Edd has the experience, if not the weapons. The Brotherhood Without Banners came to Castle Black some time ago, though, and they brought some dragonglass. Edd split them up along the Wall so every breach has some obsidian.”

 

“Good!” Jon exclaimed in relief. “I hadn’t thought of that; for some reason I supposed they’d all stay together at one of the castles.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure they meant to,” Satin replied with a shrug, “but Edd got them to see reason. I think he might have traded away a moon’s supply of chicken and ale as part of the bargain. And the Kingslayer took his men and his Valyrian steel to the Long Barrow breach. It’s a jolt seeing so many Westerlanders here, especially men who believe us about the Others and the wights!”

 

“Yes, that particular group met some wights on their way to Castle Black,” Jon told his former squire. “Has Edd had any news from Sam?”

 

“Oh!” Satin cried, reaching into his bag again. “He did, though the raven was addressed to you. Sam is a bit behind the times, and apparently, so is the Citadel. They thought Jeor Mormont was still in command here, if you can believe that!”

 

After digging through his things for a bit, Satin handed Jon a rolled-up raven scroll addressed to Lord Commander Jon Snow. It was Sam’s handwriting, sure enough. Jon pulled it open, nearly tearing it in his haste, and read:

 

_To Lord Snow,_

 

_It is my solemn duty to inform you that Maester Aemon passed away of old age on our journey to Oldtown. In his final days he was very concerned about his niece, Daenerys Targaryen, but there was nothing he could do to help her. We burned him in the style of the Targaryens and continued the voyage with Gilly and little Aemon. The maesters thought Lord Mormont was still in command at Castle Black, but I’ve updated their records. They mean to send a new maester north while I earn my links. On that note, please excuse the long delay in writing. Novices and acolytes are not permitted to use the ravens here until we have forged our ravenry link, as I have now done._

 

_I have not found a solution to our northern problem yet, but rest assured that I will scour every inch of this library until I have learned something of use. Please send my greetings to our brothers, take care of them (and yourself), and pass on any news you may have of Gilly’s babe._

 

_Samwell Tarly_

 

Jon couldn’t help a pang of sadness at the news. His poor great-uncle, stuck at the Wall and blind for so many years, had not made it to Oldtown alive. He dearly wished the wise maester were around to counsel him, and Jon also wondered what the former prince would have said, had the King in the North revealed his ancestry to him.

 

 _Would you have been proud of your namesake, Aemon Targaryen?_ Jon thought, struggling to remember his uncle’s face. He had seen Maester Aemon nearly every day for years, but now he could not recall the face of his adviser. That was happening more and more often these days.

 

Shaking his head to clear it, Jon rolled up the parchment and put it away.

 

“We don’t need to go to Castle Black at all,” Jon told his Wintersguards and his lords (and Satin, who had mounted his horse anew next to Alyn Flint). “We ride straight for the nearest breach. Lead the way, Satin.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jon had never seen Oakenshield before, even though he’d served as Lord Commander. That was true for most of the other forts, but it seemed preposterous to say so for the one directly east of Castle Black! _Not_ , he thought honestly, _that there was much to see here_. Oakenshield was only a quarter of the size of Jon’s former command, if that. All of the buildings needed repairs, and his men would need to sleep in the tunnels connecting the buildings, at least until the barracks were habitable.

 

Edd’s men had covered the holes in the roof of the common hall with oiled cloth for the nonce. Replacing the rotten wood would take time—and builders—the Acting Lord Commander simply didn’t have. The Night’s Watchmen had been sitting at supper when Jon and his Northmen had arrived, in the aforementioned common hall where they ate and huddled for warmth at night. It was hard to call it _sleep_ with an army of the Dead headed their way. The noise of their horses and the creak of their wagon wheels had roused them from their meal.

 

“Seven preserve us,” breathed a few of the men on watch duty. Their bloodshot eyes were wide as they took in the long, long line of men marching into the tiny castle. The gray and white direwolf banners flapped in the wind, revealing to all that the King in the North and House Stark had come to the aid of the Watch once more.

 

Lady Brienne rode forward. In a booming voice, she said “Please inform Acting Lord Commander Tollett that Jon of Houses Stark and Targaryen, the King in the North, is here to see him.”

 

“I see him, I see him!” called out a familiar, glum voice. Dolorous Edd had not gotten any more cheerful with command. He looked more doleful than ever as he stepped in front of Jon, who had just handed his horse’s reins to Pod. For a moment, the former brothers looked at each other.

 

“You _bastard_ ,” Edd said finally, and Jon embraced him with a hearty clap on the back. “You had to go and quit before the great battle of our time, didn’t you?”

 

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Jon protested. “And I brought you more men in six moons than the past three kings did in years, _with_ food to keep them alive.”

 

“I can’t argue with that,” Edd agreed in his rueful tones. He dropped to one knee in the frozen mud of the courtyard, surprising Jon. Though Jon had done the same for Stannis Baratheon, it felt so utterly _wrong_ to have a former brother—and friend—kneeling to him that the king was stunned speechless. “Welcome to Oakenshield, your grace, and on behalf of the Night’s Watch, thank you for your aid.”

 

The other men in black followed suit, some kneeling more quickly and others, reluctant but outnumbered. Jon pulled Edd to his feet as soon as he’d recovered the power of speech.

 

“Thank you, Acting Lord Commander. Would one of your men direct mine to their quarters while we talk?”

 

Edd pointed at a squire Jon didn’t know, probably a new recruit, and ordered him to lead Jon’s men to the tunnels. Then he invited Jon into his quarters; cramped and musty as they were, they were better than huddling miserably under the common hall’s rotting roof, like the rest of the Night’s Watch were doing. Edd, having sent away his squire, heated some wine for himself and Jon, and offered the King in the North a cup.

 

“How far are they?” Jon asked, after taking a sip and letting the warmth flow down his throat.

 

“They’ll be here by noon tomorrow,” Edd answered soberly. “A few of us still have these, from the Fist,” he added, showing Jon an obsidian arrowhead he wore on a leather thong around his neck. “We haven’t forgotten the tale of Sam the Slayer. But it’s not enough, not nearly enough.”

 

“What of the Brotherhood? Satin said you’d spread them out along the Wall,” the king inquired.

 

“I did. Lord Beric and his Dornish squire are here with their dragonglass daggers, and now that we have you and your lady guard, we won’t be completely helpless.” Seeing that Jon was opening his mouth to speak, Edd went on. “The western garrisons have the order to seal the entrances as best they can, if they can’t hold back the invaders. It’s going to be difficult, Jon,” he confessed. “We need new scaffolding to reach the top, and we’ve barely started with that. The gaps are too tall, too wide, and too thick. They’d take an entire river’s worth of water to seal completely.”

 

“I know,” Jon replied grimly. “I saw one as we were marching here. But as far as we know, wights don’t scale the Wall.”

 

“ _Yet_ ,” the Acting Lord Commander answered, glum as ever. “The Wall had never fallen to pieces before, either, but as soon as _I’m_ left in charge, it all comes crashing down.”

 

“Well,” Jon answered, trying to lift his spirits, “if any of us survive to tell the tale, future generations won’t blame _you_ for all of this. You’re not the Lord Commander yet.”

 

“Gods willing, I’ll never be that,” the older man mumbled into his wine. “The men are terrified, Jon. The ones who didn’t believe us before believe _now_ , but they also think we’re all dead. Even Pyke and Mallister are panicking, and they’re right to do so. The Night’s Watch forgot why we’re here, and now we’re caught with our breeches down.”

 

Jon fought his rising irritation. He liked Edd, and his gloomy commentary was usually funny, but at the moment he felt like punching him. _You have more help than I ever got as Lord Commander_ , he wanted to shout. _Stannis just made demands, threatened to interfere, took our castles for his own, and tried to lure men away with promises of legitimization and castles. Do you have any idea how difficult that was to refuse?_

 

“Edd, the Wall is better manned now than it’s been for ages. We have some dragonglass. It’s not all over yet,” he said at last. “Even if they come by the thousands, they have to squeeze through four small gaps in three hundred miles of wall. It’s not an attack any sane commander would attempt.”

 

“Well, it’s a good thing we’re all sane up here,” Edd sighed, draining the last of his cup. “Our families, if they’re still alive, would be relieved to hear it.”

 

Jon had a sudden thought. “What happened to those corpses I put in the ice cells at Castle Black?”

 

The Acting Lord Commander shuddered. “They woke up when the Wall cracked, though at the time we didn’t know why. They’ve been pounding against the cell doors ever since, but we froze them shut before we marched out.”

 

“Good!” Jon said, surprising Edd with his vehemence. “Look, Edd, no one believes these things exist until they see them, and sending just a hand to King’s Landing didn’t work. I think I’ll send those two down south until we find someone who will listen, and more if we can capture them.”

 

“Be my guest,” Dolorous Edd agreed. “But Cersei Lannister won’t do you any favors, Snow.”

 

“No, not her,” Jon replied, knowing Cersei would probably turn into a wight herself, rather than help Sansa in any way. “But if I sent envoys down to the Reach, to the Stormlands, to Dorne...if people knew what was coming, wouldn’t they come to fight?”

 

“I’d sail to the Summer Isles and never come back,” his companion answered, “but that’s just me. I’m sure Westeros is _full_ of unsung heroes willing to fight a war they don’t even know is happening.”

 

Edd’s tone and his words said opposing things, but Jon let that slide. His plan was worth a try, at least so people would see that the army of the Dead was real. While the rest of his men marched the remaining four miles to the fissure in the Wall, he’d ask a few of them to make cages that could hold wights. For now, he meant to have some supper, and sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sleep didn’t come. Jon gave up halfway through the night, abandoning his cot and wincing as he stretched. Sleeping in the Lord’s Chamber at home had spoiled him for all other beds, it seemed, especially the uncomfortable cots the Night’s Watch slept on. Joren and Larence, his guards on duty, saw him rise and followed in sympathetic silence.

 

Ghost met him outside the tunnel, quiet as always. Jon paced across the courtyard, then decided to climb to the top of the Wall. The winch had been oiled recently, and made little noise as the three men and the direwolf rose to the top. The view looked much the same as the view from Castle Black, and Jon was relieved to see pristine snow and trees, not White Walkers, when he looked down.

 

“Your grace!” called a youthful voice, and a young man in several layers of fur peeked out of the warming shed.

 

“Lord Dayne,” Jon replied, smiling at his milk brother. “It’s good to see you.”

 

“And you!” the squire replied, grinning as he came closer. Jon’s guards moved toward the warming shed, leaving him with Ned and Ghost. “We’ve heard some interesting tales about you, brother!”

 

“Yes, I’m curious to know how the news of my parentage spread across the North,” Jon answered sternly.

 

“A few of us overheard the Kingslayer talking to Lord Tollett, and no one thought to keep it secret until it was too late,” Ned replied, shivering. “That explains so much! Now I understand why Wylla and your fa—uncle had to guard the mystery so well,” he said, satisfied. “Even better, that makes us cousins!”

 

“Oh?” Jon said, amused by the other’s enthusiasm.

 

“Yes,” the Dornishman explained. “Aegon the Fifth, your great-great-grandfather, was the son of Lady Dyanna Dayne! So was his brother, the maester that used to live here.”

 

“So we’re milk brothers _and_ cousins,” the king realized. Then, feeling the urge to tease Edric as he’d once teased his brothers, he added, “So if I’m part of House Dayne, doesn’t that mean I could claim Dawn?”

 

His blond cousin’s face fell. Jon chuckled, then raised his hands in a picture of surrender. “Relax, Ned. I’m not a knight, and I have a legendary sword of my own. I don’t need any more,” he added, showing Ned the blade of Aegon the Conqueror.

 

The squire took it reverently, admiring the hand-and-a-half longsword with careful hands. “I wish I had Dawn with me,” he confided. “I don’t know if it would kill a White Walker like your Valyrian steel, but I’d certainly try!”

 

“Kill a wight or two, and perhaps Lord Beric will knight you tomorrow,” Jon told him sincerely. “You have the skill to be Sword of the Morning, Ned. Mayhaps all you need is a brave deed worthy of songs, and you’ll have the title as well.”

 

“Then killing a few wights won’t be enough,” Edric complained ruefully, returning the sword. “We’ll all be doing that soon enough. I need to save Lord Beric’s life, though even _that_ loses its impact when the man dies and comes back to life every few moons.”

 

Jon tried to laugh, but the subject hit too close to home.

 

“Lord Beric told me once, that every time he died and he came back, he lost a bit of his soul,” Jon said, lowering his voice so his Wintersguards wouldn’t hear. “Does he lose his memory, as well?”

 

“Yes, of course,” Ned answered. “He doesn’t even remember his parents or his home, or my aunt Allyria anymore, and they’re betrothed! She’s just a name to him now. After his third or fourth death, he didn’t recognize _me_ , and I’ve been his squire for six years.”

 

Jon’s heart sank, and his cousin saw it in his face.

 

“You’ve forgotten something important?” he asked, lowering his voice as well.

 

“More than something,” Jon confessed. “I’ve lost some childhood memories. Sometimes Sansa will bring up a story or a person we haven’t seen since we left Winterfell, and I have _no idea_ what she’s talking about. I’m forgetting things that I _know_ I used to know, even after my death!”

 

Jon gathered steam and continued. “I can’t remember Maester Aemon’s face, and I saw him every day for years. I can’t picture _Sam_ in my mind’s eye, and he was my best friend! Even worse, I can’t remember Arya’s face anymore,” he added in a painful near-whisper. “I love her more than my own life; I always have, and I _can’t remember her face_! I know that she looked like me, with the long face, dark hair, and gray eyes of the Starks, but I can’t see her in my mind’s eye, and I’m afraid I wouldn’t recognize her if she came home!”

 

Jon could barely squeeze out the words. His throat was tight with the misery and shame he’d bottled up for months.

 

Ned clapped a reassuring hand over Jon’s fur-clad shoulder. His blue eyes looked at the King in the North with pity, and a certain weariness that could only come from watching one’s master die and come back, over and over. “Does Princess Sansa know?”

 

“No!” Jon cried, then lowering his voice again as he remembered his guards. “I don’t want to worry her. It’s bad enough that I’m the son of Rhaegar Targaryen ruling the North. If word of this gets out, people might think I inherited more than blood from my grandfather, the Mad King.”

 

“Listen to me, cousin,” Edric said firmly. “You are _not_ mad. You died, and the Red God that brought you back took a piece of you for his payment. It’s not your fault. And I don’t know the prince and princess very well, but I’m sure Prince Brandon and Princess Sansa would want to help you, if you’ll let them.”

 

He cracked a smile. “And I only knew Princess Arya for a short time, but I _know_ she’d kick you in the Targaryen family jewels, and call you stupid, for even _suggesting_ that you’re mad like Aerys.”

 

A gust of icy wind turned their way, and Jon wiped hastily at his face before his tears froze. He had not even realized he was crying, but he felt lighter after confessing to his friend.

 

“You should go back down, and try to sleep,” Ned suggested kindly. “I have watch duty until the hour of the nightingale, but no one will be looking at _me_ when the Dead arrive; they’ll be looking to you, your grace.”

 

“I thought I’d told you to call me Jon,” the King in the North replied, composing himself.

 

“I apologize,” Edric answered with a cheeky little bow. “I wasn’t sure, now that you’re Aemon Targaryen and all.”

 

Jon snorted. “I’m only Aemon Targaryen to people like Jaime Lannister, who worshiped my father. I’m happy to claim you as a cousin, but I’ll always be a Stark at heart—what’s left of it, anyway.”

 

“What if your aunt Daenerys comes with her dragons?” Ned asked shrewdly.

 

“If she wants to treat me like family, I have no objection,” Jon answered honestly. “If my claim, such as it is, threatens her, then we’ll have a real problem on our hands. But let’s take one war at a time, Ned.”

 

The king and the squire parted amicably, and Jon, his guards, and his direwolf returned to the castle, though not before a shameless Ghost had begged Edric silently for the jerky in his pocket. They’d left the shivering Dornishman alone on top of the Wall, laughing and breakfast-less.

 

There was no point in going back to bed; Jon knew he’d never be able to sleep, and the men were due to march before dawn. Instead, he went to the dilapidated kitchen, where a few stewards and Jon’s army cooks were up early, making a thick porridge and baking black bread, along with bacon for the officers. He took a loaf and some half-burnt bacon strips, and sent Larence to Ned with the plate, thinking dryly that his milk brother must be sick of the Night’s Watch and their poor rations by now.

 

Soon enough, the men were marching to the Oakenshield fissure, wearing thick woolen hats under their helms and scarves and cloaks over their leather and ringmail. The gap had been hidden from view, since they were so close to the Wall at the castle, but as the four miles dwindled to nothing, the enormity of it became apparent. This one formed a triangular hole some three hundred feet tall, and about twenty feet wide at the base, though it narrowed slightly on the southern side, perhaps to fifteen feet. The ice that had collapsed lay in uneven chunks on both sides of the hole as well as inside it, making it a difficult terrain on which to fight. Some of these ice boulders were twenty and thirty feet high, obscuring the view and impossible to move by men alone. Unlike the tunnels the Watch had built, there were no gates or murder holes. The crack in the Wall was simply a gap, wide enough for a dozen men, and they’d have to hold it or seal it.

 

Immediately, Jon set twenty of his men to building fires and spreading gravel, so his soldiers would be able to fight without slipping on the ice. Edd ordered some of his own men to form the smaller chunks of ice into barricades inside the tunnel, which they could then freeze solid. They’d make it as difficult as possible for the White Walkers to get from one side to the other. They worked on this for hours, and the weak sun crept higher and higher, until dark clouds covered it.

 

Was it Jon’s imagination, or was the temperature dropping?

 

A sentry somewhere blew a horn: three long blasts, meaning it was neither returning rangers nor wildlings coming their way.

 

“Here they come!” shouted Edd, pulling down the scarf he’d had over his nose and mouth. “Drop your shovels and get your weapons, _now_!”

 

The Northmen present looked to Jon for orders. He unsheathed Blackfyre.

 

“Remember,” he told his nearest lords, “any man can kill a wight with fire, courage, and a bit of luck. The Others are different; if you find yourself facing one of _them_ , pin it, trap it, do what you must, and call for help. Lord Beric and Lord Dayne have dragonglass, and I have dragonsteel. I know some men of the Watch carry obsidian as well. Don’t try to be heroic; try to survive, because we need you all.”

 

Lord Glover looked as terrified as the others, but he raised his sword into the air. “For House Stark, and the North!” he shouted, and his soldiers cheered, soon joined by the rest of the Northmen. A few Night’s Watchmen joined in as well, while the others looked on awkwardly and held their weapons in trembling hands.

 

“Light your torches,” Jon ordered, “and follow me.”

 

The tunnel had turned misty, and Jon’s eyes stung from the bitter cold passing through. Still, he walked toward the northern entrance, flanked by his Wintersguards and followed by the men of the North.

 

 _I took a crown and won some glory_ , he thought, _but I am still the sword in the darkness._

 

Beric Dondarrion and Ned Dayne joined them, both carrying small daggers made of dragonglass.

 

_I am the watcher on the walls._

 

Behind Jon’s guards, Edd and the few remaining rangers of the Watch lined up, swords and torches at the ready.

 

_I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers..._

 

Jon’s archers climbed the shorter ice boulders, while Edd’s archers hid behind the new barricades.

 

_...the shield that guards the realms of men._

 

Through the freezing mist, Jon saw blue eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know your thoughts, and stay tuned for more! You've been introduced to the first and second battlegrounds (the Riverlands and the Wall), and now comes the third, though of course, we will return to each one as the story unfolds.
> 
> Have you noticed that Jon is basically the Da(d)vos of the younger generation? He has a habit of adopting kids, especially the ones that get bullied, and becoming their champion and fave older brother. He does this to Arya, Samwell, Olly (show), and Satin (book only). He's just like his mama, who beat up three squires to save Howland. So it seems pretty logical (to me, at least) that he'd adopt a poor fish out of water like Ned Dayne. 
> 
> I have a question for all you eagle-eyed readers: what do you think the White Walkers are, and what's their endgame? I've seen that quote about Aragorn killing the baby orcs in their cradles before, but tbh, GRRM has not given the White Walkers enough page time to become *more* than just faceless orc-like villains. Do you think they're elementals? Another race bent on revenge? An out-of-control COTF weapon of mass destruction? A bunch of worried older brothers looking for Gilly's baby, Monster? Do they want all humans to die, or is there something else? (COME ON GRRM, GIVE US WOW!)


	3. Dany I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany meets Euron outside of Oldtown, and a battle of fire ensues on the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! I really am dreadfully sorry for the delay. For once, it wasn't writer's block! It was more "I've been in front of a computer for too many hours; the last thing I want is to stay there for more!" I work for a company that has government contracts, so when they say "Jump" we say "How high?", there's no other option. =/
> 
> Anyway, thank you to everyone who posted nice comments and begged for updates. It really does help to motivate me. As always, thank you KK for tackling my rough drafts and occasionally incoherent notes.

**DANY I**

 

Dany paced across the deck of her flagship, too nervous to stay still. She’d sailed out of Sunspear with her fleet of Ironborn and Unsullied, leaving Prince Doran’s knights and spearmen to march northwest over land with the Dothraki. She didn’t have the room to take everyone on her ships, and the Dornish spearmen and Dothraki riders were best used for land battles, not sea battles. Still, she couldn’t help but worry. Her Dothraki were under orders to not rape or pillage the lands of her allies, but if even one of her _khals_ stepped out of line, they would ruin _everything_.

 

The Prince of Dorne watched her from his chair. Though his men were elsewhere, Doran had accepted a place on Dany’s small council. That meant leaving Princess Arianne in charge of Dorne while he sailed with Dany, joining the council aboard the ship that served as her castle. Areo Hotah, his bodyguard, stood on the deck beside his lord, attentive as always, though there was no threat in sight.

 

“Your grace,” Doran said carefully. “I needn’t ask what worries you, because there are many things, but how might I help?”

 

“I don’t know,” Dany replied. “I can’t help but worry. So many things could go wrong, and we’re in Westeros now! This is where I’ve wanted to be for _so long_ ,” she trailed off, frowning at the leagues of sunlit sea in front of her.

 

“May I ask why?” the prince wondered.

 

Daenerys turned to look at him, unsure of what he meant. “Why I wanted to come to Westeros? It’s my _home_ , Prince Doran.”

 

“Yet you had never seen it, until your ship brought you to Sunspear,” the man answered, watching her with shrewd, dark eyes. “What drove you west, when you were already a powerful queen in your own right?”

 

“Westeros is my birthright,” Dany told him, wavering. It wasn’t her reason, and she knew it. Recovering her father’s throne had been _Viserys_ ’ dream, not hers. “When Viserys died, I became the last Targaryen in the world. The Iron Throne is mine, by right.”

 

The Prince of Dorne shook his head. “It’s not enough, your grace. Your family lost the throne, and Targaryen inheritance alone means little after more than twenty years of usurper kings and queens. You did not come to _reclaim_ a throne, but to _win_ one through fire and blood.”

 

Doran seemed to be asking a question, but Dany was not sure what he wanted. As she gazed at him, confused and silent, the prince signaled to his bodyguard, who wheeled him closer to the queen.

 

“Your grace,” Doran said gently. “I have kept Dorne out of the wars of Westeros since Prince Rhaegar died on the banks of the Trident. I’ve been honest about my desires—for justice, for vengeance, and for a ruler who will be wise and maintain a lasting peace after the fire and bloodshed are over. I would beg you to be honest with me, in return. We are about to go to war against five—excuse me, four-and-a-half—” he amended, sending a quick glance at the Ironborn crew “of the seven kingdoms. What do you hope to gain from it?”

 

And then, Dany understood.

 

“I want a _home_ , Prince Doran,” she said in a near-whisper. It seemed almost shameful to admit it. “I’ve been an outsider almost all of my life. When I wasn’t running from the Usurper’s assassins, I was living with people whose traditions were totally foreign, and to whom my name meant nothing, except a bargaining chip. I’ve ruled people who wanted to own slaves, to profit from fighting pits, and all sorts of barbaric practices. I rule Dothraki, who think it perfectly normal to start a brawl at weddings and let guests kill each other.”

 

Prince Doran’s eyes softened.

 

“It’s true that ruling Westeros was my brother’s dream. _I_ was never so ambitious as a child. I wanted to be happy. I wanted to go back to Ser Willem Darry’s house in Braavos and live with the old bear. He’s been dead since I was five years old, and I _still_ dream of that house. I want to _belong_ , and war is the only way I can return to Westeros. Any usurper king or queen would have me and my dragons killed.”

 

Dany stopped. There was a lump in her throat and her eyes stung. She could almost hear Viserys yelling at her to _S_ _top crying, Dany, you’re not a baby! Are you a princess of House Targaryen, or a sniveling commoner’s brat?_

 

“Oberyn visited Ser Willem once,” Doran told her kindly. “It was when we arranged your brother’s betrothal to Arianne. You must have been two or three years old then. He said he’d never seen a happier Targaryen babe; he found you in the garden, collecting flowers for Ser Willem and sucking on a lemon while Viserys played in the shade. Our niece and nephew were not so lucky; living in the Red Keep can oppress one’s spirits, even as children, and poor Elia was ill so often that little Rhaenys and Aegon were left in the care of nurses for much of their lives.”

 

Prince Doran could only guess how Dany thirsted for stories of her family— _not_ her mad father and his cruelty, but her sweet mother, her kind goodsister, Rhaegar’s young children—but she had a more pressing question.

 

“Have I passed your test?” she asked quietly.

 

The man’s eyes shone with unshed tears after speaking of his murdered sister and the children, but he smiled at her. “For now, I am perfectly satisfied with my choice of queen. And know this, your grace: as long as I live, you will always have a home in Dorne, no matter what may come to pass in the other kingdoms.”

 

Dany looked at him, so overcome that she could barely speak. The prince squeezed her hand gently with his own. He’d donned gloves to ward off the chill of the sea and hide the reddened, swollen joints, though Dany knew his hands pained him greatly. When she recovered, her response was so faint that a slight breeze would have blown it away.

 

“Thank you, Prince Doran.”

 

Their moment of peaceful quiet dissipated when Yara Greyjoy, aspiring queen of the Iron Islands, jogged towards them from the helm of the ship. Her dark eyes were glinting with excitement. Lord Theon followed, looking worried.

 

“Your grace! Prince Doran! Look there,” Yara told them, pointing. “Do you see the flame?”

 

Dany looked, and indeed, there was a distant flame rising on the horizon. “What is it?”

 

“It’s the top of the Hightower,” Yara replied. “The tower itself is so tall—over a thousand feet—that the flame can be seen for miles and miles. We’re about five-and-forty miles from Oldtown.”

 

“It’s one of Lomas Longstrider’s nine _Wonders Made by Man_ ,” Prince Doran added, looking at it with interest. “Although the current tower is fairly recent. The earlier fortresses were much smaller and made of wood. Some of the tales say that Bran the Builder raised the first stone tower, only two hundred feet tall.”

 

“Bran the Builder?” Dany asked, curious. She had never heard the name before. The only builder her brother had told her about was Maegor Targaryen, king of Westeros and builder of the Red Keep.

 

“Brandon Stark,” Theon explained quietly, noticing Dany’s confusion. “The Starks have hundreds of Brandons in their crypt, but this one was the _founder_ of House Stark, if the tales are true. The Northmen say he raised the Wall with the help of giants and the children of the forest, and he also raised Winterfell, and Storm’s End with Durran Godsgrief, and possibly the first stone Hightower.”

 

“Sounds like quite the legend,” Dany answered, once again feeling the sting of her haphazard education.

 

“In any case, we’ll reach Oldtown soon,” Yara added, businesslike once more, “and that’s where we’ll find my kinslaying shithead of an uncle, and whatever fleet he’s assembled. I don’t know how he built one so fast.”

 

“He’s formed an alliance with Cersei Lannister, so the answer is simple,” Prince Doran offered in his calm manner. “The Greyjoy fleet must have joined with the Lannisport fleet.”

 

“ _That_ won’t last, no matter what my uncle and the Lannister whore promised,” Yara said decidedly. “Pyke and Lannisport have been enemies for thousands of years. Any Ironborn captain worth his salt would never trust those yellow-haired greenlander bastards, and _they_ won’t trust our folk, either.”

 

Lord Theon looked embarrassed by his sister’s crude language, but he said nothing. Daenerys nearly laughed; she’d been a _khaleesi_ before becoming queen! Rough words would never frighten her or disgust her, not when there were so many other, far more terrible things in the world.

 

“Then, if Her Grace’s dragons don’t scare them off, and they truly are attacking the same place together, we may have to hammer at their weak alliance until it shatters,” the Prince of Dorne told them.

 

“How?” asked Lord Theon.

 

“Perhaps we ought to cut off some tongues, like Uncle Euron does,” Yara said in disgust.

 

“We need one side to turn on the other, showing that they can’t count on their new allies in a panic,” Doran explained. “If you’ll allow it, your grace, Varys and I will command a small group of your men and see it done.”

 

Dany didn’t trust the eunuch alone, but Doran’s involvement sealed the deal. “Very well. How many men will you need?”

 

“Oh, half a dozen Ironborn, and half a dozen Unsullied should do,” the man replied. “Areo, take me inside, please.”

 

With little effort, the bodyguard picked up the prince from his chair and carried him down the stairs to his cabin. Dany hoped Doran would make more use of Varys than she’d been able to thus far. There wasn’t much information to gather while sailing without ravens, and the man knew little of naval warfare.

 

* * *

 

As the Hightower grew larger and taller, and the bay narrowed enough to see land on both sides, Dany and her companions finally saw the battling fleets awaiting them. Though the news coming to Sunspear had been sparse, Dany and her commanders knew that the Redwyne fleet had separated to protect the coast from Lannister attacks, and the Ironborn had joined their new allies, setting much of the Reach on fire between the Mander and the Whispering Sound. Though the majority of the Reach army remained intact, the Redwyne fleet had been much reduced, and would be desperate for relief.

 

“Gods,” said Dany’s Hand, shading his eyes to look into the distance. “She’s given _Euron Greyjoy_ the last of the wildfire!” he cried, aghast.

 

He was right. Dany looked, and indeed there were ships burning in an inferno of green fire. The nearest of them were flying Redwyne colors. Far behind them, between Oldtown and the defending fleet, floated perfectly safe Greyjoy longships and Lannister war galleys, as well as some smaller ships Dany couldn’t see properly.

 

“Fire ships,” Yara Greyjoy said grimly, putting away her looking-glass. “If we sail further into the bay with those coming toward us, we’re all dead. It will be too cramped to maneuver around them.”

 

Dany looked at her dismayed councilors, and fought the urge to laugh at them.

 

“Remind me, Lord Hand; what are my house words?” she asked pointedly.

 

“Fire and blood,” Tyrion replied. “And that’s not comforting at this time, your grace.”

 

“You forget that I bring my own fire,” the queen told them all, gazing upwards in search of Drogon. “I’ll fly overhead, and ensure that any fire ships are ashes at the bottom of the bay before you come close.”

 

“It is too dangerous, my queen,” protested Grey Worm.

 

“I agree, your grace,” Lord Varys added.

 

“What would you have us do, then, while the city is defenseless and the Reach is burning? Shall I wait on the ship, eating lemon cakes and playing cyvasse, while the people I mean to rule suffer? I think not.”

 

She called to Drogon, more with her mind than with her voice. It was hard to explain how their bond worked, even to herself, but her child swooped down towards the water, like he did when he fished for whales. Rhaegal and Viserion remained high above them, gliding on the winter winds.

 

“Slow down our fleet. I’ll clear the path,” Dany said, then climbed aboard her dragon, ignoring all protests.

 

Riding Drogon was a delight, despite her purpose for doing so. The winter sun blazed above her, and the salty sea-breeze was bracing after days of a stuffy cabin. Far below the queen and her dragon lay the most fertile and beautiful part of Westeros— _Rhaesh Andahli_ , as the Dothraki called it—as well as the engineering marvel that was the Hightower. For a moment, Dany forgot that she was flying toward an enemy fleet she must kill with dragonfire, and simply basked in the joy of soaring above the world.

 

But the flames licking at every seaside village ruined the idyllic picture. The destruction soured her enjoyment, though it did nothing to change her mind. It was time to fight fire with fire, and take back her father’s kingdom. Dany urged Drogon lower, into the path of a Lannisport war galley.

 

“ _Dracarys_!”

 

The effect was immediate. The wooden ship and its golden-haired crew alike burned instantly under Drogon’s black flame, leaving only small pieces of debris and ashes scattered on the seawater. A massive curtain of steam formed where Drogon’s fire had touched the seawater, bathing Dany with its searing heat.

 

Men on a nearby Greyjoy longship were pointing and shouting in alarm. Some tried their luck with crossbows, but Dany flew out of range as quickly as she dared. Her next target was one of the fire ships, devoid of people but presumably containing pots of wildfire. She ordered her dragon to burn it, and indeed, the thing exploded in black and green flames. The Greyjoy ship was too close; it, too, caught fire, and terrified Ironborn and thralls alike ran in a panic, hoping to jump overboard and survive in the water. Yet the wildfire spread too quickly, catching all but a few and trapping them on the deck or below it. For them, death by dragonfire was a mercy; a quicker death than the one awaiting them. Dany gave the order again, _Dracarys,_ not realizing that she was weeping until a blast of cold wind hit her cheeks.

 

The Greyjoy and Lannisport fleet looked endless. Over and over, Dany bid her dragon dive, blast his black-and-red fire at a fire ship or an enemy galley, and retreat before anything harmed herself or Drogon. The screams of dying men became a wordless roar in her ears, and Dany ignored it as best she could.

 

_If I look back, I am lost. I am NOT my father; I burn them only because they attacked my allies. They deserve to die._

 

As Dany swooped low for another attack, she caught sight of her own fleet, anchored safely away from the wildfire. Yara would not risk the ships until every last bit of wildfire had died. Dany hunted for her next target, and found the last of the fire ships between two Lannister ships. Drogon reduced it to ash and green flames, taking the two Lannister galleys with it.

 

Suddenly, Drogon shrieked in anger, and turned so abruptly that Dany nearly flew off his back. Only the reins kept her from death, and she looked around in alarm as she scrambled back aboard her dragon. The enormous Greyjoy ship approaching them had fired several siege weapons on its deck, striking Drogon hard in his left wing. The bolt had not gone through cleanly, but lodged in the bone, impairing Drogon’s flight. He was bleeding sluggishly.

 

Dany felt her dragon’s pain and rage as though it were her own. Every part of her screamed for vengeance, and Drogon felt the same; he didn’t need Dany to give the order. Within seconds, his black flames had engulfed the monstrous galley and all of the siege weaponry on board, though not before another bolt had struck her dragon in the leg.

 

She knew her time was limited. Drogon had never been tame, and it was useless to ask a dragon to be so. Now that he was injured, there was only so much she could ask of him, and destroying the entire enemy fleet on her own was absurd.

 

Choosing her targets carefully, Dany approached another galley full of siege weapons, this one flying Lannister colors. They fired at her, and at Drogon, but Dany was more prepared this time around. A quick command to Drogon and the nearest bolts burned to ashes before reaching them, while the injured dragon dodged the others. Golden-haired sailors met their fiery end screaming, and Dany felt Drogon’s fury beginning to abate. Soon, the pain would overpower everything else.

 

One sunken war galley later, Drogon had had enough. Dany steered him back to her flagship, landing on the deck with a crash. The largest of her children was growing too big to do this much longer, but that couldn’t be helped; Drogon needed his wounds bandaged. As for Dany herself, now that she was away from the battle, she noticed the unmistakable scent of burnt hair, and looked at the charred ends of her plaits in surprise.

 

 _I’m going to need a wigmaker_ , she thought wildly. _I can’t meet the high lords of Westeros with a bald head!_

 

The thought almost made her giggle, and she knew it was the battle-madness wearing off.

 

Immediately, Tyrion, Missandei, Grey Worm, and the Greyjoy siblings appeared, skirting carefully around the wounded dragon. Now that he lay so still on the deck, Dany noticed many smaller wounds from arrows and debris dotting his hide, and fought to contain her anger.

 

“What was it, your grace?” asked her Hand. “We saw something hit Drogon and nearly topple you both!”

 

“A ballista, I think,” Dany replied. “Just there, on his wing bone. The bolt must be removed before he can fly again. There’s another one in his leg.”

 

Tyrion winced. “How will we get them out without burning to a crisp?”

 

“I will keep him calm,” Dany answered, hoping her dearest child would allow it.

 

Queen Yara produced her ship’s surgeon, an old Ironborn sailor with more scars than skin. The man trembled as he approached the dragon, but went to work at once, proving his bravery without words. Dany stayed in the dragon’s line of sight, stroking his head and willing him to be still. He roared piteously as the Ironborn healer cut the bolts free, and Dany’s heart broke for her child.

 

“Now comes our turn, your grace,” Theon Greyjoy spoke up, distracting her. “You’ve cleared the path, so we’ll sail into the bay and meet our uncle. Unless you can fly another dragon, you’d best stay with this one, far from the battle.”

 

“I cannot ride Rhaegal or Viserion,” Dany told him, “I don’t have the same bond with them that I have with Drogon. But I am their mother nonetheless; if I give them commands, they will obey.”

 

 _Or so she hoped_. Her children could be willful at times.

 

Night fell, hiding the burning shores and enemy ships from view. Still the distant wildfire burned on the water, consuming the scattered remains of destroyed galleys. It would run out of fuel by morning, but the ghastly green flames danced behind Dany’s eyelids, invading her dreams. Ser Barristan and Tyrion Lannister had told Dany of her father’s obsession with wildfire, and her mind could now supply images to go with the grisly stories.

 

She would never be able to sleep.

 

The deck was not empty, despite the late hour. Tyrion Lannister sat with a bottle of wine, staring dully at the distant fires. Not too far away, Theon Greyjoy paced restlessly.

 

“You should rest, Lord Theon,” Dany told the latter, quite hypocritically. “A battle awaits us in the morn.”

 

The Ironborn tried to smile, but his missing teeth ruined what must have been a roguish grin, once. “I have little hope of glory in battle, your grace,” he replied, courteous but bitter. “Sleep will not restore my strength, or return my missing fingers. The best I can hope for is a good death.”

 

Dany wanted to pity him. His sister had told her some of the things Theon had suffered in captivity. And yet, the queen couldn’t help but feel he had brought it all on himself. Was a man doing monstrous things excusable, if a bigger monster came along and did worse to him?

 

She was all too aware that to many Westerosi, _she_ would be the bigger monster. There were no easy answers in life, she pondered ruefully, and Theon Greyjoy’s past misdeeds were not hers to judge.

 

“What will happen, should you meet your uncle in battle?” Dany prodded. Kinslaying was very much frowned upon in Westeros, and yet Greyjoys would fight on both sides tomorrow.

 

“He will kill me,” Theon said, unflinching. “I’m not strong enough to fight him, and he has already proven that family means nothing to him. Euron Greyjoy lives to serve himself.”

 

“What about Yara?”

 

“Yara could very well kill the fucker,” Theon admitted, “and I hope she does. The Ironborn will follow the strongest leader, and killing our uncle would prove Yara is the one, even though she’s a woman. Then we wouldn’t even need to fight the rest of them.”

 

“You’re a remarkable man, Lord Greyjoy,” Dany told him, meaning it. “I’ve never met a man who would support his sister as you do yours, and you face your own death as bravely as my Unsullied.”

 

He laughed, a choked, harsh sound in the stillness of night. “The Unsullied and I have more in common than you realize, your grace,” he said. “And there are worse things than death.”

 

A haunted expression crossed his face.

 

“For Yara’s sake, I hope you live and earn much glory,” Daenerys said sincerely. “For yours, I hope you find peace, in victory or in death.”

 

The Ironborn bowed, silent, and Dany left him to his brooding.

 

Dany’s Hand was not in the mood for conversation. He said only that he was remembering past mistakes, and Dany let the matter drop. Instead, she went to sit by Drogon, who was sleeping fretfully, his wounds clean and bandaged with pieces of an old sail. They’d had no other fabric long enough to wrap around the dragon’s limbs.

 

The inner fire of her dragon kept her warm despite the chilly sea breeze, and Drogon’s wing blocked the terrible green flames from view. With her child’s snoring for a lullaby, the queen fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

Morning came too soon, with a thick fog over the bay that smelled of charred wood and cooked meat. Carefully, Yara’s crew lowered a rowboat with Dany and her fellow noncombatants down to the water. Two of the Ironborn rowed them to the nearest shore, where Rhaegal and Viserion had lain down to sleep in a ruined barn. Drogon followed reluctantly when called, wobbly on his injured leg and wing, but lay next to his brothers without protest. With dragons for protection and the fog for concealment, Daenerys and her closest advisers waited, impatient, for news of the coming battle. Doran Martell read from an old book. Tyrion Lannister drank. Missandei paced. Areo Hotah cleaned his weapons.

 

The fog lifted slowly. At first, Dany saw only the shadows of her fleet as they passed into the bay. Then the sun rose higher, and the mist cleared enough to see colors. Black and crimson, for her own fleet. Crimson and gold, for the enemy. Black and gold, on both sides. Blue, for the remaining Redwyne ships. And far inside the bay, just under the Hightower, a single ship with a red eye sigil. This, the Greyjoys had told her, was the _Silence_ , the ship of mutes captained by Euron Greyjoy himself.

 

It was maddening to be so far from the action! Dany had to trust that her intact fleet would be enough to take on the reduced enemy fleet, but it sat ill with her to stay out of the battle. If only Drogon were not injured! She supposed he’d fly if Dany commanded it, but not happily, and not for long. She must only fly if the battle went _very_ wrong.

 

The sun had reached its zenith when the two fleets finally engaged. Dany heard the unmistakable sound of siege weapons striking wooden hulls, and the faraway screams of men. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Prince Doran remove a device from a pocket, and bring it up to his own eye.

 

“Would you care to look, your grace?” he offered a moment later, showing Dany a small Myrish lens. It was a beautiful piece of work, golden with intricate Rhoynish scrollwork and small, varicolored gems all along the tube. “I’m afraid that’s the best we can do from this distance.”

 

She took the lens and peered through it. The first ship she saw was one of Yara’s, sinking and aflame. It was not Dany’s flagship, but dread grew in her belly as she turned the lens here and there, searching for more tidings of the battle.

 

Here, a wreckage in Lannister crimson. She could see men swimming away from it. There, a half-sunken Redwyne ship, with a prow so damaged it looked like a sea monster had chewed it up.

 

There it was! She’d found her flagship, and it was still upright and whole. It was, however, very close to the _Silence_. Were the Greyjoys negotiating terms? Was the battle over? It had been a while since the last scorpion blast.

 

“Oh, this is so infuriating!” Dany groaned, dropping the lens. “They’re close enough to parley, but who knows what they’re actually doing?”

 

“You trust your Greyjoy allies, do you not, your grace?” Doran asked, watching her curiously.

 

“Yes, I must—but I do wish we had news!”

 

“Not a resounding defense of our Ironborn allies,” the Imp said wryly, “but I don’t blame you. They’re an untrustworthy bunch at the best of times.”

 

“So says the Lannister kinslayer,” Doran Martell replied, in a tone that quelled any further japes.

 

“I am that,” Tyrion said calmly. He looked down at his empty wine bottle and swore. “And yet, the thousands of years of bad blood between the Ironborn and—hells, anyone else—speak loudly enough. I hope your plan to turn them on each other works.”

 

They waited a while longer; the ship’s cook had packed bread, cheese, and dried meats for them, as well as a few casks of wine they’d hidden from Tyrion. It was more of a snack than a true meal, but none of them had the stomach for more. Doran’s lens revealed no secrets, and the sun began its painfully slow downward journey to the west.

 

Dany was keeping Drogon company when three riders suddenly appeared. They were excellent horsemen, with pale skin freckled from the sun, and the colors of House Bulwer of Blackcrown, if Dany remembered correctly. They tethered their horses well away from the barn and approached on foot, palms up and empty to show they meant no harm.

 

“Your grace?” asked the leader, a middle-aged man with piercing blue-green eyes. “Queen Daenerys?”

 

“I am she,” Dany replied. “What news, ser?”

 

The men walked closer, and all three froze as they saw the dragons. Drogon and Viserion slept on, but Rhaegal was piercing them his fiery bronze glare.

 

“He won’t harm you unless I command it,” Dany reassured them, praying she spoke true. She was sure Rhaegal had feasted on a whale only yesterday.

 

Recovering from their shock, the messengers knelt at Dany’s feet. Behind her, Prince Doran, his guard, and Tyrion walked closer, just as eager for news.

 

“The two fleets engaged just before noon,” the leader told her, “and all was well for a few hours. Some of the Crow’s Eye’s Ironborn turned on the Lannisport men, though it’s not clear why. But Queen Yara and her men stormed the _Silence_ , and were taken captive, your grace. The Redwyne men are fighting on, but the Ironborn will not move without your order.”

 

“What of Theon Greyjoy?” asked Tyrion.

 

“Missing, Lord Hand,” the man replied, clearly seeing Tyrion’s pin. “Most believe he fell in battle. We were bid to come by two injured men that managed to swim ashore, and we rode in all haste.”

 

“I must go, then,” Dany decided, looking doubtfully at Drogon.

 

“Your grace, wait,” the second rider begged her. “The men say the Crow’s Eye means to perform some form of dark sorcery at sunset,” he explained. “That is why he did not kill his niece immediately. He wants her blood for something.”

 

“Blood magic,” spat Tyrion. “First Stannis, now Euron.”

 

“Sunset,” Doran murmured, and twisted in his chair to look at the sun. “I’d say that’s in an hour at most, your grace. There’s not much time to plan a rescue mission.”

 

“I agree,” Daenerys replied. “I’m taking my children, right now. The sun will conceal me until I’m close enough to attack.”

 

“But Drogon’s injuries—” protested her Hand.

 

“I am _well_ aware of his injuries, Lord Tyrion,” Dany snapped. “But if I let Yara be sacrificed without a fight, I will have lost this war when it has barely begun. And I know the power of blood magic,” she added darkly. “Anything Euron Greyjoy conjures up would be a nuisance at best, and a nightmare at worst. I won’t let it happen.”

 

There was no stopping her, and her advisers knew it.

 

“Seven guide you, your grace,” murmured the Blackcrown men.

 

Drogon was awake. Perhaps some of his mistress’ anxiety had reached her dragon through their bond, because he lay his head down on the dirt and allowed Dany to climb. In her haste, she clipped his injured wing with her booted foot, making him groan weakly, but he allowed her to take a seat on his back.

 

“Drogon! Viserion! Rhaegal!” Dany commanded. “Sōvēs!”

 

The dragons rose; Drogon did so a little slower and a little more precarious than his brothers, but he seemed to regain his confidence once they were high enough to glide. The sun was traveling steadily toward the western horizon, and Dany used this to hide, knowing any sailors foolish enough to look directly toward the sun would be momentarily blinded, and unable to see her or her children.

 

The nearest ships were Yara’s. Dany flew directly over them, ignoring the shouting of the Ironborn below. Some sprang into action, clearly believing that she was about to rescue their queen. _Good_. It would save time if they acted now, instead of waiting for Dany to deliver Yara into their arms.

 

The next cluster of ships bore Lannister colors. Dany ordered her dragons to burn them, and announce her arrival. They obeyed in spectacular fashion, but Dany urged Drogon forward, toward the _Silence_.

 

“And now my day is complete!” Dany heard, abnormally loud. A man dressed in black seemed to be shouting at her through a speaking trumpet. As soon as she saw the eyepatch, she knew it was Euron.

 

Yara and an old man Dany didn’t know were bound and gagged at his feet. Behind him, in the arms of a scarred, mute captor, Theon Greyjoy thrashed weakly, bruised and gagged as well.

 

“Welcome, Daenerys Targaryen, Jelmāzmo, Muña Zaldrīzoti!” he called, grinning up at Dany. He’d called her Stormborn and Mother of Dragons in a surprisingly good High Valyrian accent. “Please, do join us aboard my ship. I would like for you to witness this glorious event.”

 

“And what is this glorious event?” Dany shouted, allowing Drogon to perch on the bowstrip. Viserion landed on the crow’s nest with a thump that made the whole ship sway, while Rhaegal found Yara’s abandoned rowboat and sat on it. It nearly buckled from the dragon’s weight.

 

“Well,” the Crow’s Eye replied pleasantly, “I’m rectifying a great injustice, your grace. You have your sigils made flesh, as did the unworthy Starks,” he paused for effect. “But where is _mine_? Krakens are not real, you say? Krakens haven’t been seen in centuries? I say _that is_ _ **greenlander horseshit**_!”

 

His crew of mutes could not cheer, but they raised their sword-hands in unison.

 

“But a kraken demands a sacrifice before he appears, and I am happy to oblige. What beast could refuse the blood of kings?” he said, nudging the old man with his boot, “or queens?” he added mockingly, as he gave Yara a vicious kick.

 

“One word to my dragons and you would burn before summoning your precious kraken,” Daenerys threatened, her voice cracking as she was forced to shout again.

 

Euron Greyjoy grinned. “And your pretender queen and ally would burn with me,” he replied. “Who will fight for Daenerys Targaryen if she kills her own friends with dragonfire?”

 

He was right, curse him. She had no guarantee that her Ironborn would follow her without Yara or Theon, and it would set a terrible precedent to let her first Westerosi ally die.

 

“Name your terms,” Dany yelled through gritted teeth. She was running out of time. Behind her, the sun had become a thin sliver of orange fire above the horizon.

 

“I knew you’d see reason,” the Crow’s Eye said pleasantly. “I want Harrenhal rebuilt and gifted to me,” he began, his lips twisted in a smirk even as he spoke. “I want all of the books about magic and the obscure arts in the Citadel. I want Daenerys Targaryen for a rock wife, and Cersei Lannister and Sansa Stark for salt wives. I want the sword Blackfyre found and given to me...and I’ll take one of your dragons, as well.”

 

Bile rose in Dany’s throat. “Impossible.”

 

Euron Greyjoy blinked, his face frozen in a smug sort of grin. _Could he really be surprised? There was no chance in the seven hells that_ _Dany_ _would_ _ **ever**_ _acquiesce to his demands, and surely he knew it!_

 

Then he moved.

 

“Very well, then.”

 

A thin slave dressed in ragged clothing stood near the Crow’s Eye, holding a crimson horn. Euron took it, and laid it on the deck near Yara’s head. Then, before Dany could shout or do anything, the madman picked up Yara by her hair and slit her throat. The old man followed her into the Stranger’s arms.

 

Dany’s wordless scream of horror joined Theon Greyjoy’s muffled one, but it was too late. The kinslayer allowed their blood to drip, brilliantly crimson, onto the horn of the same color, and then kicked the corpses overboard with a maddeningly cheerful laugh.

 

“Goodbye, niece! Goodbye, Damphair!”

 

Then he commanded the thrall to approach, and returned the horn to his shaking hands. Trembling from head to foot, the man blew it, and the sound made her dragons wail in agony. Dany wished she could, too. Most of Euron’s mutes had covered their ears, but it was not enough. They were wincing in pain.

 

The slave began to bleed from the nose and ears, then he fell, screaming wordlessly. Before Dany’s terrified eyes, the man’s skin blackened as if the horn had burned him from the inside out. It took him seconds to die.

 

Euron picked up the abandoned horn and dusted it off, still grinning carelessly.

 

“Amazing, the artifacts one finds while out reaving,” he said, satisfied. “The Celtigars kept this one hidden from us for centuries, but now that the Crownlands and the Ironborn are allies...” he shrugged. “Well, it’s the dawn of a new age.”

 

Dany didn’t know which god to pray to first, so she cast her prayer in the hope that one would hear and grant it. _Please, let it fail_ , she thought desperately. _Let the krakens stay in the depths_.

 

But no god was listening. The dark sea beneath them began to churn, and then, the enormous head of a monster appeared, its hideous mouth wide open and hungry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Release the kraken!
> 
> So, whatcha think? I hope you got your Dany fix, because we're going back North to see what the Starks are up to!


	4. Sansa I and an Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ruling the North is hard work, but someone's got to do it. Sansa deals with the day-to-day tasks that keep the North in business, and now and then, some magical oddities that come with the Stark blood. Luckily, she has some help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! I've just returned from a holiday trip to the UK, which always inspires me and leaves me ready to write like a madwoman (or more of a madwoman, I guess). Standing on 2000-year-old manmade structures blows my twice-American mind, so when you apply that awe to Westeros and their crazy old castles and Wall...geez. Where I live, everything was farms until the 1960s!
> 
> So...when I posted the last chapter, I got an anon review saying that Dany is not fire-proof in the books, and that she's a terrible queen. I thought I'd made it obvious in the previous chapter, but if I didn't...while Dany was flying over the burning ships in Oldtown, she got burned. That's why she's laughing that she'll be bald for her coronation if she doesn't hire a wig-maker; she lost part of her hair to the fire. She's not in agony like most people, but she's not immune, either. I can't go books-only with her because if I did, she'd never come home to Westeros at all at this rate.
> 
> As for the terrible queen part...yes, I know. That's why a) she's surrounding herself with advisers who can help temper her destructive tendencies, like Doran and Tyrion, and b) her poor decisions back in Essos will not be glossed over like they are in the show. In this very chapter, in fact, you'll see how her 'burn everything' attitude could bite her in the ass.
> 
> Anyway, thank you to Queen KK for getting this back to me so quickly! Hope you all enjoy this glimpse of Winterfell before we go back to our three battlegrounds.

**SANSA I**

 

Even after Robb’s death, Sansa had never imagined herself as the lady of a great Northern keep. Her childish dreams had involved marrying a great lord of the South, and later on, a golden prince. As a hostage and Tyrion Lannister’s wife, there had been no point in imagining such things. And Ramsay Bolton had never allowed her to play the role, in truth. Fat Walda Bolton had been the lady of the keep until Sansa’s loathsome second husband had murdered her, and Sansa herself had been his trophy and his toy, a pretty thing to show off or hurt as it pleased him.

 

 _And wasn’t that ironic?_ Now that Jon had taken up the crown of the Northmen, and Bran had returned home, it was Sansa Stark, the Princess of Winter, running the kingdom from her family’s ancestral seat!

 

Sansa was determined to do it well, though she felt her deficiencies keenly. She’d never been good at sums, and now it was vital to calculate food rations correctly, for the smallfolk and for the army at the Wall. She hadn’t paid enough attention to the history of the northern houses, with all their feuds and intermarriages; it would be horrifically easy to offend one of the lords! Septa Mordane and Lady Catelyn had trained her to be a beautiful queen with ladylike accomplishments, not the regent of a North at war, its wildling allies, and the legendary knights of the Vale!

 

Even her favorite tasks felt unimportant and useless in the grand scheme. She’d always been a deft hand with the embroidery needle, but Winterfell’s Free Folk and refugee population had little need for finery; they needed sturdy wool, good linen, and plenty of furs and leather. Though Sansa was skilled enough at sewing practical garments, that required more time than she had. Lately, her sewing group of ladies had taken over that duty.

 

Between blizzards, more and more people arrived to fill up the winter town outside the walls. The wildlings had set up camp in the northern quarter and kept mostly to themselves, but the smallfolk of the North did not mix with them or even trust them. Nearly every time Sansa and her Wintersguards visited the town, they’d had to interrupt a brawl. Only Jon could unite the two peoples (though Ser Davos had tried), and he was unable to help from his current post.

 

Regency was a heavy mantle. In her most selfish moments, Sansa wished Jon would return already, and take the responsibility back from her. To add to her frustration, Sansa often saw Bran, motionless in the godswood or the crypts for hours at a time, while she ran to and fro, exhausted and always busy. The petulant child inside of her whined that it just wasn’t _fair_.

 

The nights brought little comfort. Without Jon, his burgeoning musical skill, or his direwolf to chase away her nightmares, the Lord’s Chamber loomed large and sinister in the late hours, and all too often Sansa woke up screaming. So often had her Wintersguards barged in, looking for a threat, that the princess was no longer embarrassed to be seen in her lace-trimmed nightrail. Every single guard had gotten an eyeful or three, though the Northmen were too deferential to say anything, and Geisa the spearwife didn’t care.

 

Sansa’s only escape came in the scarce moments of peace her duties allowed. She’d been forced to ask the kennelmaster to put down Ramsay’s feral bitches, now that a long winter was upon Winterfell. There was simply no reason to waste precious food on dogs that might never submit to humans again. However, her daily warging practice with Kyra had spared her that fate. The once-vicious hunting dog had become as docile as a puppy, and often followed Sansa around the castle as she went about her business.

 

Jon and Bran had told Sansa that dogs were the easiest to control, since they’d been bred to do humans’ bidding, and they’d been right. Slipping into Kyra’s skin felt as comfortable as sinking into a hot bath, and after moons of practice, just as easy. When the endless duties and unhappy memories overwhelmed the princess, she would take Kyra for a run around the keep or the winter town, leaving Sansa’s body behind in Jon’s solar, or on her bed.

 

There was an unforeseen—but welcome—benefit to doing this. As Kyra, Sansa had access to information that would never have reached the Princess Regent otherwise. When a Barrowton merchant had stormed up to the castle, demanding justice for some stolen bolts of linen, Kyra’s nose had followed the thief’s trail directly to the man’s business partner, rather than the wildlings they’d accused. She’d discovered that Bran’s trick on Littlefinger was common knowledge, albeit inaccurate and full of exaggeration, and that Jon was now known as Jon the Undying or Jon the Gods-Chosen among the smallfolk. She’d heard secrets, benign and dangerous, and prevented two rapes.

 

Unlike her brother and cousin, no one knew Sansa was a warg. She meant to keep it that way. The North had no equivalent to Varys the Spider to ferret out plots against the royal family, but with Sansa’s warging, they would not need one.

 

Every moment Sansa wasn’t riding with Kyra, time dragged by, making the weeks since Jon’s departure felt like years. Ser Davos was a willing Hand, plain-spoken and full of good counsel, and at times, a much-needed neutral intermediary. However, he knew even less about the North and its people than Sansa herself. That was why, when two Manderly men-at-arms came to her with three strangers in gray robes and chains, she nearly wept at the sight of them all.

 

“Thank the gods,” Sansa whispered, leaning back into the Stark of Winterfell’s chair. “Welcome to Winterfell, maesters!”

 

The men bowed, chain links clanking slightly. Ser Davos, sitting on Sansa’s right, also sighed in relief.

 

“Thank you, your grace,” replied their leader. He was quite old and quite hairless, except for a very bushy pair of eyebrows. His blue eyes gleamed with intelligence. “My name is Morn; I am bound for Castle Black. Andros will come as well, and take over for me when the inevitable occurs.” He paused, and pointed out his other companion.

 

“Maester Rodwyle, on the other hand, would be pleased to serve the Starks of Winterfell.”

 

Rodwyle bowed. He was possibly the youngest maester Sansa had ever seen, with a long face half-hidden by a thick, black beard. She supposed he’d grown it to appear more mature, though it was not long enough to hide his impressive collection of chain links.

 

“Where were you born, Maester Rodwyle?” Sansa asked curiously. The man certainly had the look of the North about him!

 

Rodwyle smiled. “Torrhen’s Square, your grace. When the Archmaesters asked for volunteers to come North and serve Winterfell, I could not resist the call.”

 

“The war has left Oldtown in a sticky situation, Princess,” Andros spoke up, and Sansa detected a hint of the Vale in his speech. “The Grand Maester is dead; none of us recognize that degenerate Qyburn as one of _our_ order, and between Queens Cersei Lannister, Daenerys Targaryen, and Yara Greyjoy, and Kings Euron Greyjoy and Jon Snow, we find ourselves stretched thin and pulled in all directions. Some Archmaesters prefer one ruler, some another.”

 

“I can imagine,” Sansa replied politely. She could guess where this was going. “But your noble order was functioning perfectly before the Targaryens unified the Seven Kingdoms, and I expect it will continue to function now that we’ve separated. That said,” she added, “if you’ve come to take the measure of the new King in the North, I’m afraid he’s not here. We received news of an attack on the Wall, and he marched our army north with all haste.”

 

“It is true that the Citadel ran well enough before the Iron Throne,” Morn admitted, “though it takes time for the maesters to adjust, with changes such as these. For the nonce, your grace, we come to fulfill our sworn duty. No kingdom may function without proper communication and education of its lords.”

 

“We brought ravens, and some copies of common books,” Andros informed Sansa, “since we heard Wintefell had been sacked and burned.”

 

“You heard correctly. Even before the sacking, an assassin set fire to our library as a distraction,” Sansa replied. “The few books we’ve recovered are there already, but the place sorely needs a maester’s attention. And I must say, it would be wonderful to have a Citadel-trained adviser once more. My cousin named me regent due to my Stark blood, not my wisdom, and our Hand knows more about sailing and the Stormlands than the North—I mean no offense, Ser Davos,” Sansa added quickly.

 

“I take none, your grace,” Davos replied in his matter-of-fact way.

 

The maesters glanced at each other in confusion.

 

“Cousin, your grace? We understood your late father’s bastard had been chosen to rule the North.”

 

Sansa smiled innocently. “I suppose the Citadel couldn’t have known,” she said, pretending to think hard. “But I must correct you; the man _you_ know as Jon Snow was born Aemon Targaryen, son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen by his second wife, Lyanna Stark.” She took a breath, and went on. “At the time of his birth, King Aerys, Prince Rhaegar, and Prince Aegon had all died, leaving my cousin as the true heir to the Iron Throne. That is why Ser Oswell Whent, Ser Gerold Hightower, and Ser Arthur Dayne guarded him until the end.”

 

Maester Andros’ mouth had fallen open. The other two didn’t look much better.

 

“That is only the beginning of Jon’s story,” Sansa continued, deliberately ignoring their shock. “Please, make yourselves comfortable, have some of our bread and salt, and afterwards I will show you the documents that prove this in our king’s solar. In the meantime, I will tell you of my cousin’s rise to Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, the mutiny that freed him, and the enemy he is currently fighting. I’m afraid the tall tales the Citadel ignored are not tales at all...”

 

Sansa glanced up briefly and saw her guards on duty, Geisa and Young Artos, fighting laughter at the dumbstruck maesters. She gave them a barely noticeable nod, then turned her attention back to her guests.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The maesters were not the only welcome arrivals at Winterfell. A few days later, Morn and Andros had barely left for the Kingsroad when two Widow’s Watch Flints begged admittance to Jon’s solar, where Sansa, Maester Rodwyle, and Ser Davos were sorting through inventories. They’d brought another group of guests, this one long expected.

 

“Your grace,” bowed the Flint greybeard on the right. “We bring the honorable Tycho Nestoris, emissary of the Iron Bank of Braavos, come to treat with House Stark. His assistant, Noros Vynolis, and these guards, have come as well.”

 

Young Artos Norrey stepped forward, a tower of a man in Wintersguard gray. “You stand in the presence of Princess Sansa of House Stark, Regent of the Kingdom of the North,” he said solemnly. “The King’s Hand, Ser Davos Seaworth, and Maester Rodwyle.”

 

The Braavosi men bowed politely. They looked half-frozen and out of place, dressed in muted reds and purples and blues in a sea of sober brown and gray. They also lacked the warrior’s build of most of the men in the Great Hall; it was clear their weapons were parchment, ledgers, and ink, not steel.

 

Sansa rose gracefully. She had dressed to impress them, because as she always told Jon, a king (or princess regent) must look the part. She wore a new gown of fine wool, pure silver with delicate white embroidery at the hem and sleeves. Her winter rose crown, newly polished, shone brightly above her plaited hair.

 

“Welcome, Master Nestoris, Master Vynolis. Syra, if you would?”

 

The serving girl stepped forward with the tray of bread and salt. It was obvious that Nestoris had visited Westeros before; he took a piece of bread without the slightest hesitation, and his assistant followed suit. Once guest right had been given, Nestoris sent his guards away with an elegant hand gesture.

 

“Thank you, your grace,” the banker said, his accent barely noticeable. “We are honored to accept House Stark’s invitation.”

 

“We have much to discuss, as I’m sure you know,” Sansa replied carefully. “But if you would prefer to rest and reconvene on the morrow, Lord Davos, Maester Rodwyle and I would be happy to wait.”

 

“There will be time for rest later, your grace,” Nestoris told them.

 

“Very well. Please, be seated,” Sansa agreed. The solar’s chairs were far more cozy than the ones in the Great Hall, and there was food for those who wanted it. If these two meant to work from the moment of their arrival, at least they would do so in relative comfort.

 

“I understand Jon Snow is at the Wall?” the banker asked, looking down at his stack of letters and documents.

 

“ _King_ Jon is fighting a battle against northern invaders,” Ser Davos said, putting a sharp emphasis on the first word.

 

“Apologies, Lord Seaworth. When I last saw you both, Jon Snow was Lord Commander and you were Hand to Stannis Baratheon. Royalty in the Sunset Lands is too changeable for a humble Braavosi to follow.”

 

“Jon was released from his Night’s Watch vows—” Sansa protested.

 

“Your grace, I meant no disrespect,” Nestoris clarified. “How His Grace left the Night’s Watch is no concern of ours. From what I saw of your king, he was a clever young man, wise about gold and full of big ideas for the future of the Night’s Watch. When we received his letter, the keyholders were quite curious to meet him. Noble houses often go extinct, of course, but a new heir appearing twenty years later is rare...and the keyholder in charge of the Targaryen accounts died seven years ago, and was never replaced.”

 

He sighed. “So we have spent the weeks since your emissary’s arrival digging through decades of long-forgotten investments and adding up the gold in your accounts. It was an enormous effort.”

 

“Is there a new account manager?” asked Maester Rodwyle.

 

“If your king approves, my assistant Noros Vynolis will handle his accounts. I trained him myself, and am proud to recommend him for the position.”

 

“I’m sure Jon will have no objection,” Sansa replied, nodding at Vynolis politely. The man picked up his papers.

 

“In his letter, King Jon inquired if there was a Targaryen account, held separate from the Crown’s finances,” the new account manager told them. “The account does exist, and predates the Iron Throne’s account. How a Valyrian dragonlord persuaded the Bank to open two accounts, I do not know; however, princes have added to it ever since. Prince Viserys attempted to claim both this money and the Iron Throne’s, but Prince Rhaegar’s will was clear: the gold would go to his widows and his children.”

 

“When the news of Prince Aegon’s death reached the Iron Bank, the account was worth—” Vynolis looked at his notes. “—eighty-three thousand, five hundred and eighty-two gold dragons.”

 

Sansa heard Ser Davos gasp, and knew her own face must look as shocked as his. That was a moderate fortune for a southron lord, but in the North? Surely, this would be enough to keep them fed for years of winter!

 

 _And Robert Baratheon had spent half that on a single tourney prize!_ Sansa remembered, shaking her head at the wastefulness of that Hand’s Tourney.

 

“The Targaryens spent lavishly, but they also favored a highly aggressive investment strategy; after all of these years, that account holds two hundred thousand, seven hundred and twenty-four gold dragons. It certainly helps that no one has withdrawn any gold from it for over twenty years.”

 

“Gods be good,” muttered Maester Rodwyle, his eyes round as saucers.

 

Young Artos and Rickard of the Wintersguard stood silent by the door, but Sansa saw their jaws hanging open. It was a good thing the guards were sworn to keep House Stark’s secrets! The last thing they needed was for the smallfolk and the lords to stop the careful rationing that was keeping everyone alive, all because Jon was now richer than any King of Winter in the history of the North!

 

“The king also asked if a bride price was ever paid to his mother, Princess Lyanna of House Stark,” Vynolis said, ignoring the shock he’d created. “Prince Rhaegar opened an account three-and-twenty years ago in her name; at the time, he deposited fifty thousand gold dragons for her and any children she might bear.”

 

When Jon and Sansa had found the old letter from the Iron Bank in Lyanna’s chest, they had dreamed of twenty, thirty, maybe fifty thousand gold dragons at most. Sansa wanted to laugh hysterically. To think that Jon had owned three times that as a _newborn_ _babe_!

 

“Was the investment strategy as aggressive as for the other account?” Ser Davos wondered.

 

“Indeed,” the banker answered. “Princess Lyanna’s account now holds ninety-eight thousand, six hundred and seventy-nine gold dragons, with King Jon as the only beneficiary.”

 

“Well,” Maester Rodwyle said, looking thunderstruck, “we needn’t worry about our folk starving this winter _or_ the next, your grace.”

 

“There is the Stark account as well, of course,” said Vynolis, looking almost embarrassed, “but the Starks favor more conservative investments. The account holds only thirty-seven thousand, six hundred and four dragons at the moment.”

 

“I don’t doubt it,” Sansa replied frankly. “We Starks cannot afford to gamble away our gold, when an extra coin might be the difference between a thousand families freezing to death, and surviving until spring. Still, it couldn’t hurt to revise our strategy. Jon has given me the authority to make any purchases or investments I see fit, but I’d rather not take all of his family fortune if I can avoid it.”

 

“I wouldn’t even know _how_ to spend so much gold, to be honest,” Ser Davos confessed. “Unless we wished to fight the Lannisters, and spent it all on sellsword armies and provisions for them. That’s what Stannis meant to do.”

 

Tycho Nestoris, who had kept silent and allowed his assistant to step into his new role, suddenly perked up.

 

“Is that a possibility?” he asked, one dark eyebrow rising.

 

“Not in the near future,” Sansa replied carefully. “Our army is fighting in the north, not the south.”

 

“Nevertheless, Cersei Lannister is your enemy,” Nestoris mused aloud. “And Noho Dimittis informed us that she refuses to pay the debt owed to the Iron Bank, so she is _our_ enemy as well. Stannis Baratheon pledged to pay it,” he said, nodding at Ser Davos, “and then he got himself killed, leaving the Iron Bank without its due. I need hardly say that the Bank would be glad of a new king—or queen—on the Iron Throne.”

 

“A new king or queen who would inherit more than six million gold dragons in debt,” Sansa said, skeptical.

 

“Half of that was a loan from House Lannister, not the Iron Bank,” Nestoris replied, calm and courteous. “The debt owed to the Bank is less than two million, though there are several Tyroshi cartels that will come calling as well. For a new ruler determined to start his reign properly, arrangements would be made,” Nestoris said calmly.

 

“What of Daenerys Targaryen?” asked Ser Davos. “We’ve all heard she’s coming to Westeros at last, with Dothraki, Unsullied, and all of Cersei Lannister’s southron enemies on her side. Could she not be your chosen queen?”

 

“Perhaps,” the banker acknowledged. “But we have our doubts. Do you know how she bought her army of Unsullied?”

 

“We have little information, truly, more rumors than anything substantial,” Maester Rodwyle replied.

 

“She offered one of her dragons in exchange for the army, against the counsel of her advisers. When the Unsullied were hers, she bid the dragon burn his new owner alive, and return to her.”

 

Every Northman in the room winced. Even now, any mention of men burning alive brought to mind Lord Rickard Stark, and the murder that had birthed a rebellion.

 

“Even if we assume she doesn’t share her father’s madness, Daenerys Targaryen shares his disregard for a contract. It could be an Iron Bank emissary burning next, when she decides she would rather ignore the crown’s debt. We cannot allow that.”

 

 _This was terrible news_ , Sansa thought ruefully. _Jon had hoped to meet his aunt one day, and gain her help to fight against the Dead. If she truly burned men alive to escape paying them, what other atrocities might she commit? And the Iron Bank might try to push Jon into a war for the Iron Throne, something_ no one _needed!_

 

“I see why you would prefer King Jon on the Iron Throne,” Ser Davos spoke at last. He’d been the least affected by the memory of Rickard Stark. “But he doesn’t want it, and he won’t fight for it unless there is no other way.”

 

“The Targaryens married within their family, did they not?” Vynolis spoke up. “If King Jon should wed his aunt, and perhaps curb her more...destructive tendencies...”

 

“You would ask King Jon to wed a woman who _burns men alive_ when they displease her?” Maester Rodwyle protested. “Mayhaps you forget, Honorable Noros Vynolis, that our king is the legitimate son of Rhaegar Targaryen, and his claim to the Iron Throne is stronger than hers. We don’t know how she will act when she receives these news—she may well attempt to kill him.”

 

The two Braavosi looked at each other.

 

“We understood kinslaying was a severe offense against the gods in the Sunset Lands,” Tycho Nestoris said, frowning. “But it _is_ true that House Targaryen created its own rules while it was in power.”

 

“It is a grave offense,” Ser Davos told them, subdued. “But it _does_ happen; and kings and queens consider their hands clean as long as another does the dirty work,” he finished, probably thinking of Stannis and the Red Woman. Sansa had heard much about their murder of Renly from Brienne.

 

“My lords, we are speaking of things that may never happen,” Sansa interrupted. “Now that we know how much gold Jon’s family left him, we can return to the most urgent business at hand.”

 

“Agreed, your grace,” Rodwyle told her with a shallow bow.

 

“Very well, your grace,” Tycho Nestoris agreed politely. Sansa knew they hadn’t heard the last of the Bank’s plans for the Iron Throne, but that discussion could wait until Jon returned.

 

“Honorable keyholders, have you ever heard of the glass gardens of Winterfell?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Negotiating with the Iron Bank was hard work, and slow. Jon had inherited enough gold that there was no need to borrow more, but there were purchases to be made with it, and the Bank would act as the intermediary. At the top of Jon’s list was the repair of Winterfell’s glass gardens, so food could be grown there as long as the winter lasted. He’d also suggested constructing similar gardens in the other keeps around the North, though without the convenient hot springs underneath, they would need an alternate source of heat. Jon’s rough sketches contained large fire pits, bread ovens, and even forges to create the necessary heat. That meant the Braavosi would need to hire craftsmen of all sorts, and pay them a premium for coming to the North in winter.

 

“Myrish glass has the highest quality,” said Tycho Nestoris, glancing up at the broken roof of the Winterfell glass gardens.

 

“We don’t need the highest quality glass,” Maester Rodwyle replied. “As long as enough light passes through to keep our crops alive, a slight yellow tint or a few bubbles will not bother us in the slightest.”

 

“In that case, I would recommend Tyroshi glassblowers. Their glass is quite good, but it cannot compare to Myrish glass, or even Volantene glass, so they cannot charge the same price,” said Vynolis.

 

“Perfect,” Sansa agreed, “Even better if we can hire masters with apprentices. Some might even be inclined to stay in the North.”

 

They worked out a budget, as well as a commission for the Iron Bank. On and on they went, detailing each purchase that must be made, such as seeds from the Reach and Dorne, and the sales of Northern goods, such as ironwood.

 

That evening, as Sansa walked to supper with her head full of pipe repairs and winter vegetables, Bran and his two guards stopped her and Kyra.

 

“Bran? What is it?”

 

He looked unsure.

 

“Have you seen something?” Sansa prompted.

 

“Yes,” he said at last, “but I’m not sure what it is. I’ve seen at least a dozen Stark kings and lords taking their sons down into the crypts and speaking of the King’s Protection.”

 

“Protection down in the crypts?” his sister replied, wanting clarification.

 

“Yes,” Bran said again. “I’m having trouble following them all the way down, but I think they go through the collapsed tunnels.”

 

“Well, if there’s a protection down there, I don’t know how we can reach it, Bran,” Sansa told him, still a bit skeptical. What could possibly be down there, buried with the dead under centuries-old rubble?

 

“I’ll keep trying,” Bran answered, “but I really think we should clear out the rubble. We may need it, especially if Jon falls.”

 

“ _Don’t say that!_ ” Sansa ordered, sounding harsh to her own ears. Bran flinched.

 

“Don’t even think it, Bran,” she added, softer. “He won’t fall. He promised.”

 

She did her best to ignore her guards’ pitying looks.

 

“Please, Sansa,” Bran said, looking up at her with those Tully eyes. “This is really important. _Trust_ me.”

 

Sansa groaned inwardly, and added another item to her list of costly repairs.

 

“Very well,” she told her brother. “I’ll have men hired to clear the tunnels.”

 

“Thank you,” Bran replied, smiling. Then his stomach rumbled, ruining the moment. The siblings laughed, and resumed their journey to the Great Hall together.

 

They sat at the high table with Ser Davos, Maester Rodwyle, and the bankers tonight, and none of them were feeling talkative after a day full of talk. Luckily, one of the wildlings Jon had brought had a flute, and was playing a merry tune from his seat below. One of Sansa’s feet tapped along to the beat, invisible beneath her voluminous skirts and the heavy table. All she needed to be truly merry was for Jon and Arya to appear, safe and sound.

 

She raised her cup to her lips, about to taste the mulled wine, when a blur of something furry slammed into her arm, spilling the drink over the table and poor Ser Davos, who sat on her left.

 

“Kyra, what in the Seven Hells?” Sansa scolded, but the dog paid no heed. It ran to the end of the hall, growling fiercely at the serving wench that had brought the drinks to the high table.

 

Immediately, the six Wintersguards’ hands went to their weapons of choice, and they moved to surround the woman. When another serving girl ran into the hall, shouting that Jarel the food-taster was dead, Sansa was not even surprised, though a hint of fear pooled deep in her belly.

 

 _Poison_ , she thought to herself. _Someone tried to poison me._

 

“No,” the serving wench shouted, looking frantically from dog to guards and back. “Your grace, I’ve done nothing wrong!”

 

Sansa begged to differ. Through Kyra’s excellent nose, she detected the stench of guilt and deception. Looking closer, Sansa noticed the wench wore at least four layers beneath her roughspun dress, marking her as a southron unaccustomed to the cold.

 

“Who hired you, wench?” growled Rickard Ashwood of the Wintersguard. “Speak, and we may grant you a merciful death.”

 

“I know nothing!” she insisted, looking wildly from one face to the next. “It wasn’t me, I swear it by the old gods and the new!”

 

“She sounds like a southron,” Beren Waterman told Sansa, who agreed. Whoever had sent the wench had not taken the trouble to disguise her Fleabottom accent, which ruled out Varys and Littlefinger, if the weasel still lived.

 

“No,” the assassin protested. “I’m from White Harbor, your grace!”

 

“You lie!” Wyman Manderly boomed, outraged. “No White Harbor wench would dare poison a Stark of Winterfell!”

 

“You were the last to handle a cup of poisoned wine,” Sansa spoke, keeping her tone even and serious, as Father and Jon did when dispensing justice. “The wine-tester is dead, which rules him out, and if you’re from the North, I’m a Martell,” she finished in disgust.

 

“Lock her up. She’s to be questioned, then executed,” Sansa ordered.

 

Geisa and Artos obeyed at once, dragging the struggling woman out as the people in the hall pelted her with food and hollered at her. Shaken, Sansa looked back at the high table. Another servant had cleared the poisoned wine, and Bran and the Braavosi remained in their seats, though they’d watched with interest.

 

“Your old friend Cersei Lannister?” Ser Davos murmured in Sansa’s ear.

 

She nodded tightly. There was no one else with the motive and the means, no one so clumsy and desperate to see her dead.

 

“We’ll have to do something about her,” Ser Davos pondered aloud, “but not until Jon returns.”

 

“Yes, not until Jon returns,” Sansa repeated, feeling lonely and older than her years. “But if we’re very lucky, Daenerys Targaryen will reach King’s Landing soon, and give her what she deserves.”

 

“I don’t know that anyone deserves to be burned alive,” Rickard said, shuddering. “But the Lannister woman comes close.”

 

“Who said anything about burning?” Sansa said wryly. “After flying so far, the dragons might need a good meal, and Cersei is richer meat than most.”

 

Her guards laughed. Perhaps her black humor was inappropriate for a princess, but after surviving an attempt on her life, Sansa did not care. It was better to laugh than to cry in front of her people, surely?

 

She took her seat once more, and Bran squeezed her hand from his place on her right. Kyra, having performed her duty to her mistress, lay at her feet, gnawing at a juicy bone.

 

Such was the life of the regent of the North.

 

* * *

 

 

**ROBERT – an Interlude**

 

The Lord of the Vale had taken to holding court in Lady Waynwood’s solar, which was warm and comfortable. The room was a bit crowded when his knights entered, but that couldn’t be helped. It was there that he first saw the man who had betrayed him—the man who had murdered his mother.

 

He entered, looking small and pitiful. One of his arms was missing, and his clothes were cheap and threadbare. There were deep shadows under his eyes, and his cheeks were hollow. Robert had never imagined his mother’s husband could look so woebegone, and rejoiced inwardly.

 

“Uncle Petyr,” he greeted, nearly choking on the polite words. “You’ve returned to the Vale at last.”

 

“After a terrible ordeal, I assure you,” Littlefinger answered hoarsely, “but it does my heart good to see you well, Lord Robert. You’ve grown.”

 

He’d never treated Robert with so much respect, but then, the creature had had him under his thumb as well as the entire Vale. Now, shrunken and stinking and ill-looking, he seemed to cower beneath the eyes of the Lords Declarant.

 

Word of his treachery had spread throughout the Vale; Robert had ensured it. Littlefinger would find out soon enough how quickly his bought friends deserted him, but there was time enough for that.

 

“Imagine my surprise, Uncle,” Robert said conversationally, “when I received a raven from my cousin Sansa, informing me that you’d plotted to kill the King in the North, our _ally_ , and admitted to pushing my mother out of the Moon Door, after preying on her until she killed my father.”

 

What little color remained on Littlefinger’s face deserted it. It was clear he’d not expected his puppet to turn on him.

 

“I assure you,” Robert told him coldly, “were the Eyrie not shut for the winter, I would drag you up there and make you _fly_ like the sad excuse for a mockingbird you are. Unfortunately, we can’t go up there until the winter passes, so we’ll have to think of another execution method. I have ideas, as do my loyal knights.”

 

“My lord,” Littlefinger said weakly, “it’s all a misunderstan—”

 

Robert stood up. “It is _not_ a misunderstanding!” he shouted, losing his—admittedly limited—patience. “That pathetic maester confessed he was poisoning me under _your_ orders, and I know _everything_. I know how my mother and father died. I know what you did to Sansa. I know what you did to my uncle Stark. I know you’ve been blackmailing everyone, and accumulating wealth and grain that should never have been yours.”

 

Petyr Baelish interrupted, not by pleading or shouting, but by coughing. A violent fit made his body shake, and when he removed his hand from his face, Robert saw blood on his fingers.

 

“Oh, you’re ill,” Robert said. “Perhaps that will save us the trouble of an execution.”

 

Lady Anya looked a bit shocked at his callousness, but Robert didn’t care. This piece of filth did not deserve his compassion.

 

Lord Nestor seemed to agree.

 

“Here’s what we’re going to do, Lord Baelish,” Robert informed him. “We’re going to lock you up, in a place only the _loyal_ people in this room know about. You’re going to tell us every last secret you have, until we know how to return every ward and find every sack of flour you’ve squirreled away. And then, when you’ve outlived your usefulness, you will die.”

 

Baelish looked at him in horror. A trickle of blood still remained on his chin.

 

“Get him out of my sight.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to Starstorm, who picked up on where I was going back in Part 3, when Arya read Littlefinger's mail and saw that note from Sweetrobin! He did say Littlefinger would be treated as he deserved...he didn't lie, as befits an Arryn. :-D And you can see that Arya's poison has already taken effect. Pretty soon, the filth of Baelish will wash away.
> 
> Littlefinger Punishment Tally:  
> -Left arm ripped off by angry direwolf  
> -Left arm amputated without anesthetic  
> -Left arm cauterized  
> -Three toes lost to frostbite  
> -Dosed with a slow-acting poison that will liquefy his insides  
> -Imprisoned for *questioning* by the last loyal people in the Vale
> 
> Okay, folks! Coming up next, a visit to each of our battlegrounds--the Riverlands with Arya, her two Northmen, and her pack of wolves, the Wall with Jon and Jaime, and Oldtown with Dany and Theon (and Sam, who is in the Citadel watching). Same bat time, same bat channel!


End file.
